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Captain Charles King 


U. S. ARMY 






THE STOEY OP 


FOET FEATNE 



CAPTAIN CHAKLES KING, U.S.A., 

Author of “ The Colonel’s Daughter,’^ “ Between The Lines,” Etc. 


Adapted from the drama of the same name of which, in collaboration 
with Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland and Emma V. 
Sheridan Pry, he is the author. 


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CHICAGO, 


NEW YORK, 


. . . OTHER WORKS BY . . . 

CAP! CHARLES KING 

TRUMPETER FRED. With full-page illustrations. 
In Neely’s Prismatic Library. 75 cents. 

“T-RUMPETER FRED” is a charming story and 
tastefully gotten up. I know of nothing in the book 
line that equals Neely’s Prismatic Library for elegance 
and careful selection ; it sets a pace that others will not 
easily equal and none will pass. — E. A. Robinson. 


FORT FRAYNE. Captain Charles King. Seventh 
Edition, Cloth, $1.25. 


NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT*PAR- 
ALLEL. (In press.) 


For sale everywhere, or ^eirt, postpaid, on 
receipt of price, by the publisher, 

F. TFNNYSON NEELY, 

114 Fifth Avenue, New York, 


Copyright, 1895. 

Copyright, 1896, by F. Tennyson Neely. 


PREFACE. 


There is a story within a story which should perhaps 
be told in presenting to the indulgent reader this 
tale of army life. Three ’years ago I was surprised 
and pleased by an invitation to collaborate in the 
preparation of an army play, for the invitation came 
from those who had won high honors in their chosen 
field. The months spent in the gradual develop- 
ment of our drama were full of pleasure, yet great 
was our rejoicing when the work was done. But 
then came blighting illness to her who was its 
inspiration and long, long months of utter seclusion. 
Then followed the mysterious disappearance of the 
manuscript story of the play — a manuscript of which 
there was no copy, for it had not even been typed. 
Finally came the suggestion that the story be 
promptly rewritten and published, not in the origi- 
nal four parts corresponding to the four acts, but 
in twenty chapters wherein the entire tale might be 
told, and this was the work assigned to me. 

Reading over now the completed pages, I realize 
how very much I have missed the guiding hand of 
one, — the valued suggestions of the other, — of my 
gifted and gracious collaborators, and how many 
apologies I owe to both. C. K. 

June, 1895. 






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4 





FOET FEATKE. 


CHAPTER I. 

The snow was mantling the wild waste of barren 
prairie stretching toward the white peaks of the Big 
Horn, shrouding its desolation, hiding its accus- 
tomed ugliness, and warning scout, soldier or cow- 
boy to look well to his landmarks before venturing 
forth upon its trackless sea, for even the cattle trails 
were hidden, and the stage road lost to view. Be- 
tween its banks of glistening white the Platte rolled 
black and swollen, for a rare thing had happened — 
one so rare that old trappers and traders said they 
never knew the like before since first they sighted 
‘‘Larmie” peak or forced the passes of the Medicine 
Bow — there had been three days of softly-falling 
snow, and not a whisper of a Wyoming gale. There 
had been a thaw in the Laramie plains, preceded by a 
soft south wind in the Park country of Colorado, 
and whole fleecy hillsides, said the natives, were 
‘‘slumping off” in the upper waters of the river, and 
that was how the Platte came to be tossing high its 
wintry wave under the old stockade at the ferry and 
sweeping in power, instead of sleeping in peace, be- 
neath its icy blanket, around the huge bluff where 
waved the colors of old Fort Frayne, 

5 


6 


FORT FRAYNE. 


The roadway winding from the river-side up to 
the adjutant’s office at the southern end of the garri- 
son, was still unbroken. The guard at the ferryhouse 
had been withdrawn, and as for the veteran stockade, 
sole relic of the early days of the overland stage 
route, it looked now in its silence and desolation, 
heavily capped as it was with its weight of snow, 
like some huge, flattened-out Charlotte de Russe, at 
least that w^as what Ellis Farrar, daughter of the post 
commander, likened it to as she peered from the 
north window of their cosy quarters on the crest of 
the bluff. ‘‘And to think of Christmas being almost 
here, and not a chance of getting a wagon through 
from the railway,” she mumured, “and I so longed 
to make it bright and joyous for mother. It is al- 
ways her saddest season.” 

These low-toned words were addressed to Captain 
Leale of her father’s regiment, a strong, soldierly-look- 
ing man of nearly forty years, who, with field glass 
in hand, had been studying the wintry landscape to 
the north and east. He turned as the young girl 
spoke, and, lowering his glasses, followed her eyes 
and looked anxiously across the bright army parlor 
to where the fire-light from the blazing logs upon 
the hearth fell full upon a matronly woman whose 
luxuriant hair was already turning gray and whose 
sweet, patient face bore the unmistakable trace of 
deep sorrow. She was seated at a desk, an unfinished 
letter before her, and had paused in the midst of her 
writing and dropped off into the dreamland of far- 
away scenes and memories. From a drawer in the 


FORT FRAYNE. 


7 


desk she had taken what was evidently a portrait, a 
small photograph, and had been intently studying it 
while the only other occupants of the room were busy 
at the window. 

‘ ‘ It is — ^y ou know — Royle’s, my brother’s picture. ” 
whispered Ellis. I know it, though I haven’t seen 
it in ever so long — five years I think.” 

Again the captain bowed, inclining his head in the 
slow, grave way, that was habitual with him. ‘‘I 
know,” he said, briefiy, and the gaze he fixed upon 
his colonel’s wife was full of anxiety and sympathy. 
‘‘I have often wished that your father’s promotion 
had brought him to any other garrison in the army. 
You remember he was stationed here when lieuten- 
ant-colonel, and it was from here that Royle went to 
West Point.” 

I remember it but vaguely. That was nine years 
ago, captain, and I was but seven. We saw him during 
his cadet furlough two years later — in 1883 — and 
that was the last. Mother only rarely speaks of him, 
and father, never, unless — unless,” she added, with 
timid appeal, he does to you. Does he? ” 

Captain Leale paused a moment before replying. 
Only that very morning had his colonel talked with 
him, the most trusted of his troop commanders, of 
Ellis’s long-missing brother. Only within an hour had 
Farrar sought again his advice as to one whom he could 
not bring himself to name, and referred to in shame 
and sorrow as ‘‘my eldest,” and only rarely as “my 
son.” First born of the little flock, the boy had been 
given his father’s narne. The only child for several 


8 


FORT FRAYNE. 


years, petted, spoiled, over-indulged by a fond, j3ure- 
hearted mother, then reared among the isolated army 
garrisons of the far West, the handsome, headstrong, 
daring youth but all too early had shown a tendency 
to wild companionship and reckless living. Few 
men in the cavalry arm of the service were held in 
higher esteem than Colonel Hoyle Farrar, who, entering 
the service with the first regiment to be sent to the 
front from New York City in the spring of 1861, 
had fought his way to the command of a brigade in 
the last campaign, and then been commissioned as a 
junior major of cavalry at the reorganization of the 
regular army. The president himself had tendered 
Farrar, long afterwards, a cadetship for his son, and 
it was gratefully yet almost fearfully accepted. The 
mother could not be brought to believe her boy would 
not strive to do honor to his name at the Point. The 
father dreaded that the wayward, reckless fellow, in- 
tolerant of restraint or discipline, would merit pun- 
ishment, and, being punished, would resent. Royle 
stood the ordeal only fairly well at first. Demerits 
in profusion and ‘‘ light prison ” twice had clouded 
his record before the furlough year, but the mother’s 
eyes rejoiced in the sight of the handsome, stalwart 
young soldier after his two years of rigorous train- 
ing, even though the mother heart grieved over the 
evidences of dissipation and vice which speedily 
marred the long-looked-for days of his vacation. Be- 
tween him and his father had been more than one 
stormy scene before Royle returned to the academy — 
interviews from which the senior issued pale, stern, 


FORT FRAYNE. 


sorrowful; the young man gloomy, sullen, and more 
than half defiant. In his second claSs year came tid- 
ings of misdemeanor that almost broke the mother’s 
heart. Farrar hastened from the distant frontier to 
the banks of the Hudson expecting nothing short of 
dismissal for the boy, and promising the mother to 
fetch him at once to her, but the court, even in sen- 
tencing, had signed a plea for mercy for the cadet 
who bore so honored a name, a plea that his classmates 
would never have indorsed, and the president re- 
mitted the punishment to a term of confinement to 
barracks and camp. The father wasted no words in 
reproach. He pointed out to the son that this was 
his last chance. Royle, Jr., had sullenly responded 
that his disgrace was due entirely to spies and tale 
bearers and showed neither contrition nor promise of 
amend. A year later came the last straw. Reported* 
for a violation of regulations in having liquor in his 
possession. Cadet Farrar wrote a lying explanation 
to the effect that it was placed in his room by parties 
unknown to him, and for the purpose of bringing 
him into trouble, but he had been seen ‘^off limits” 
at a questionable resort in the neighboring village 
the previous night, had been drinking and card play- 
ing there, had lost money and refused to pay, had 
been seen returning by two lower classmen to whom 
he offered liquor, then staggered to his quarters only 
an hour or so before reveille roll call. He was placed 
in close arrest after being confronted with the array 
of evidence, and that night deserted and was seen no 
more. Again the colonel made his mournful pil- 


10 


rOET FEAYNE. 


grimage to the Point, and old comrades pityingly, 
sorrowfully told him the whole story. He went back 
to his regiment looking ten years older, took his wife 
and two younger children. Will and Ellis, to his 
heart, and from that day never spoke again his first- 
born’s name. It had been for years his custom to 
sign all official papers in full — ^Royle Farrar — but 
the very sound of the Christian name seemed from 
that time on to give him distress, and R. Farrar be- 
came his signature personal or official. 

The young man was heard of occasionally, how- 
ever, borrowing money from officers and friends and 
relatives on his father’s account. Thep he went to 
sea, then returned to New York and wrote a long 
letter to his mother, telling how he mourned the old 
days, and was going to lead a new life, and she too 
gladly sent him all the money she had. Then there 
was another interval, and, after a year, he again ap- 
peared as a suppliant for aid. He had been des- 
perately ill, he said, and kind, but poor, humble 
people had cared for him, and they ought to be re- 
warded. The mother would have sent again her 
last cent to him direct, but Farrar interposed. His 
check went to a trusted friend, with instructions to 
investigate, and that friend was his old comrade. 
Major Fenton, and, as he expected, it proved only 
another lie. 

Then there came an era of apparent prosperity, 
and now the poor mother in joy besought her 
husband to recognize the son, for he reported him- 
gelf in good employ, with a f^ir aalary and brilliant 


FOET FEAYNE. 


11 


prospects. He even sent a draft to repay a small 
portion of what he termed his father’s loan, but this 
was soon followed by a draft on his father for 
double the amount, and later another, and then 
letters of inquiry came from his employer, and then 
rueful complaint of how that trusting person had 
been swindled. In her agony of grief and disap- 
pointment the mother’s health was giving away, and 
Farrar concealed from her particulars even worse — 
that their wretched son had won the love of his em- 
ployer’s only daughter, and that she had followed him 
from her father’s house. There had been a secret 
marriage. There was another Royle. This news 
had come to the colonel but a day or two before. It 
was this that had unsealed his lips and turned him 
to Captain Leale for counsel and support. 

‘‘My daughter,” wrote the bereaved father, “was 
the idol of my heart, the image of the mother who 
was taken from her long years ago. Yet she turned 
from me in the passion of her love for him, and 
they have gone God alone knows where. If you can 
find him, say that though he has robbed me poor, I can 
forgive him all if he will but be good and kind to 
her. She was delicately nurtured, as carefully edu- 
cated as yotir own daughter could be, sir, and she 
was more to me, for she was my all. I own that, 
having married him, her duty was with her husband, 
but why should she have hidden that marriage from 
her father? My own fortune is well-nigh wrecked, 
but she has her mother’s little portion — enough, if 


12 


FORT FRAYNE. 


he can resist his craving for drink and gambling, to 
support them in comfort. I pray you help me save 
my child.” 

All this sad history was now well known to 
Malcolm Leale, and his eyes were full of sorrow as 
he bent them, upon the gentle, yearning woman at 
the desk, lost in her study of her first-born’s face. 
Ellis in turn stood watching him. She was a girl of 
sixteen, yet seemed older far, because of the years 
in which she . had been her mother’s companion and 
closest friend. Then as he made no answer to her 
query and seemed plunged in thought, she turned 
and stepped lightly over to the mother’s side. 

‘‘Day dreaming again, Queen Mother?” she 
asked, in the half-playful way that was habitual 
with her. “If you don’t go on with your letter 
to Will, it won’t be ready for the courier. Captain 
Leale tells me they are to send one out at noon.” 

“ Will they really? ” asked Mrs. Farrar, rousing 
suddenly. “Why, I had given up all hopes of 
hearing from him this week, or of getting a letter 
to him. Who is to go, captain? The pass must be 
breast deep in snow.” 

“I think not, Mrs. Farrar. There was very 
little wind, you know, and the fall seems to have 
been very uniform. Corporal Rorke and a couple 
of my men are getting ready now. The colonel 
was only waiting, hoping that there might be still 
some news from Red Cloud.” 

“Why, how can it come? The wires are down, 
the road hidden, and the river unfordable,” said 


VOUT FRAYNE. 


13 


Ellis, eagerly. ‘‘The last news was bad enough. I 
own I don’t want to hear further.” 

Over Leale’s face a graver shadow fell. “There 
are Indian riders who could easily make the 
journey,” he said. “ Crow Knife, for instance, 
whom the colonel sent over with the scouts five days 
ago. The fact that he hasn’t returned makes me 
hopeful that matters are quieting down,” but here 
he turned again to the window to level his glass 
upon the broad rolling expanse of v-pite, stretching 
in wave after wave to the bleak horizon. 

“God forbid there should be further trouble,” 
said Mrs. Farrar, slowly, lingeringly replacing the 
portrait in its drawer. “Surely the general has 
force enough there now to keep those Indians in 
check,” she ventured, appealingly. 

Leale lowered his binocular again. “ He has, 
provided the renegades captured on the Cheyenne 
are not sent back there. Those people should not 
be taken to the agency. They are Minneconjous, 
TJncapapas, Brules, a turbulent, ill-conditioned lot, 
who make trouble wherever the others are peaceably 
disposed. They should have been disarmed and dis- 
mounted and put under guard at Fort Robinson until 
this question is settled. What I fear is that Red 
Wolf’s band is still out and is defying the agent, 
and that the revolt will spread to Kill Eagle’s 
village. If they go on the warpath, some of our 
best scouts will be involved. That boy. Crow 
Knife, is worth his weight in gold, but his father 
and mother would follow Kill Eagle.” 


14 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘ ‘ Do you think — do you think that if they should 
revolt, we — our command — would have to be 
ordered out? ” asked Ellis, anxiously. 

‘‘It might be,” he replied, cautiously, “but I am 
hoping that no winter campaign is in store for us. 
Think of a march over such a waste as that,” and 
he pointed to the snow-clad scene before them. 
“We couldn’t cross the Platte this side of Laramie, 
either, even if the stream were fordable. The run- 
ning ice would cut the horses from under us.” 

Out across the parade, clear, yet soft, as though 
muffled by the snow, the cavalry trumpet began 
sounding orderly call. 

“Rorkeand his men will start as soon as they 
have had dinner, Mrs. Farrar,” said Leale, “and 
I must see the colonel before they go. I will send 
for your letters. ” He took up the glasses again for 
one last survey, Ellis narrowly watching him, while 
her mother went on with her writing. For a 
moment the search seemed barren of result, as be- 
fore, but suddenly Leale started, stepped nearer the 
window, and riveted his attention on one spot. 
Ellis quickly noted it. 

“ You see some one? ” she asked. 

A brief nod was the only answer. Then, glass in 
hand, the captain suddenly turned to a side door, 
let himself out into another room, and thence to the 
outer gallery surrounding the house. Here his view 
was unobstructed. Two gentlemen were coming up 
the pathway from the adjutant’s office, and a soldier 
in immaculate uniform and side arms following a 


FORT FRAYNE. 


15 


short distance behind, indicated that the one in uni- 
form was the post commander — the elder one, a dis- 
tinguished-looking man of nearly sixty, whose pointed 
mustache and imperial were well-nigh as white as 
the new-fallen snow about him, whose complexion, 
bronzed by years of exposure to prairie sun and 
wind, was ruddy brown, almost like Russian 
leather. 

Over Leale’s face fell the same shadow of anxiety 
that was noted when he stood gazing in silence upon 
the sorrowing mother at the desk within. The 
colonel was talking in an earnest manner to the man 
at his side, a civilian, so far as his dress would indi- 
cate, yet a civilian with the erect carriage and brisk 
step of a soldier — a handsome fellow, too, of perhaps 
seven and twenty years. Leale turned from them 
with some impatience. 

“ I’d bet a month’s pay, if I ever bet a cent in the 
world,” he muttered to himself, ‘‘that old Fenton’s 
nephew had no thought whatever of hunting when 
he came here in midwinter. The question is, What 
else has brought hm besides what I have already 
learned, and why he haunts Farrar from morning 
till night? ” 

At the window the fair, girlish face brightened 
an instant at sight of the coming soldier, then 
clouded as quickly as the civilian came in view. 
“Mr. Ormsby again! ” murmured Ellis below her 
breath, and the bow of recognition which she gave 
him in answer to the quick uplifting of his sealskin 
cap lacked all of the warmth and interest that 


i’ORT FEAYNR. 


16 

beamed in Ormsby’s face at sight of her. Seeing 
Leale, the colonel pressed on to join him on the 
northward porch. Catching sight of Ellis, the 
civilianHell bajcfef, entered the gateway, and came 
briskly to the door. An instant later and his step 
was heard in the hallway. Ellis turned to the 
window in something not unlike aversion. The 
mother it was who rose eagerly to welcome the 
coming guest. 

‘‘Prompt as ever, Mr. Ormsby,” she cried as he 
entered the parlor, fresh and rosy from the keen air. 
“I wish you might teach my husband to be more 
punctual at luncheon.” 

“Indeed, I feared I was detaining him, Mrs. 
Farrar. He’s merely stopped one moment to speak 
with Captain Leale. He was showing me over the 
barracks. You have no idea how vividly interesting 
all this is to me. I have shouldered the musket with 
the Seventh for eight years, and have never visited 
an army post before.” 

“ Oh, didn’t you see your uncle when he was at 
Riley? He used to write to my husband of you 
time and again, and of your pride in your regi- 
ment.” 

“No, he was in New York on recruiting service 
then, a few years ago, you remember, and we used 
to get him up to the armory or to our camp occasion- 
ally.” 

“And he was very, very kind to my poor boy, my 
Royle,” said Mrs. Farrar, wistfully, searching the 
face of her guest, “and when you came to us with 


POUT FRAYNB. 


1 ? 

letters from our old friend, for we had known him 
before our marriage,” she continued, a faint color 
rising to her cheek, ‘‘it seemed almost like welcom- 
ing him. There was nothing too good for Major Fen- 
ton that our home afforded after all he tried to do, at 
least for — him.” The sigh with which she spoke 
seemed to well up from the depths of the mother’s 
heart. Ellis, with light footsteps, had left the room 
to greet her father on the piazza without, and for 
the first time since his coming, three days previous, 
just in time to be hemmed in and held at Frayne by 
the great snowfall, Mrs. Farrar was alone with her 
guest, “There is something I have longed to ask 
you Mr. Ormsby,” she went on, “ something I must 
ask you, for a mother’s intuition is keen, and I feel 
sure you have seen or known my poor boy in the 
past. Have you heard — do you know anything of 
him now? ” 

“Mrs. Farrar, I give you my word I have not 
the faintest idea of his whereabouts.” 

“Forgive me if I am intrusive — importunate,” 
she persisted. But — Major Fenton — he was Major 
Fenton then, you know, and I think of him with the 
title he bore when he was so good — so friendly — 
when my unhappy boy most needed friends. You 
were with your uncle often then. Did you not meet 
— did you not know my Royle? ” 

Ormsby’s honest eyes betrayed the deep em- 
barrassment under which he labored, and she, watch- 
ing every sign with painful intensity, read the truth, 
despite his faltering reply. 


18 


FOET FEAYNE. 


Once or twice, Mrs. Farrar, but I knew him 
only very slightly.” 

“Tell me still more, Mr. Ormsby. You have 
been most considerate to me. You have sought to 
spare me, but in my husband’s sad face and ab- 
stracted manner I have read the truth. He has 
heard news — worse news of Royle^ and so you have 
been the bearer. Is it not so? ” 

But Ormsby pulled himself together this time, at 
least, like a man and braved her. 

“I assure you it is not so, Mrs. Farrar. From 
me, at least, the colonel has heard nothing new, — 
nothing worse. I beg you to dismiss the thought.” 

But he did not say that he had come prepared to 
tell, aye, instructed to tell, of crowning disgrace — 
come with the written proposition of his employers 
to relinquish pursuit of Royle Farrar, provided the 
father would make good the sum they had lost 
through the son’s forgery. 

“ God bless you, Mr. Ormsby, for the load you 
have lifted from my heart,” she cried. “ Ever since 
you came I have dreaded more and more each day 
that you were the bearer of evil tidings of him who 
has almost broken his father’s heart, and yet can- 
not, must not, shall not be beyond redemption, if a 
mother’s love and prayers are of any avail. Even 
Ellis has seemed to share my dread. I have 
read it in her manner, as, perhaps, you have, too. 
She did not mean to be unkind — inhospitable to our 
guest, but that sorrow has overshadowed us all. 
Even my bright, brave Will, who is doing all a boy 


J’ORT FRAYKE. 


19 


can do to redeem the name at the Point — even Will, 
I say, is sometimes confronted by the record that 
his erring brother left.” 

The tears were starting from her eyes now, and 
in uncontrollable emotion she turned away. Then 
came a loud rap at the front door, and a servant 
hastened to open it. A loud, cheery Irish voice re- 
sounded through the hallway an instant later. 
“Corporal Rorke to report to the colonel for dis- 
patches,” and glancing thither, Ormsby saw a stout 
trooper, with broad, jovial, ruddy face, his burly 
form clad in winter service dress. Mrs. Farrar, 
striving to hide and to check her tears, had turned 
into the dining room. Ormsby stepped to the north 
window and glanced out upon the little group upon 
the porch, — Ellis half shiveringly clinging to her 
father’s arm, he intently eying Leale, Leale, with 
leveled glasses, steadily at gaze at some dim, black 
object far, far across the turbid Platte, far out to 
the eastward, across those snow-clad slopes. 

“ Can you make out what’s coming, Leale? ” 

“I think so, Colonel.” 

“What is it? ” 

Leale slowly lowered the glass, and, never turn- 
ing, answered in low but positive tone: 

“ Our marching orders — for the agenr-y.” 


CHAPTER II. 


At noon that bright December day the barracks 
and quarters of Fort Frayne were resounding with 
song and laughter, and all “the good-natured, 
soldierly noise ” with which the garrison was busily 
preparing for the blithe festivities of Christmas. 
Two hours later, though the scene was unchanged, 
the preparations were for war. 

“Leave the band to guard the post, but take every 
available trooper,” were the injunctions that ac- 
companied the General’s brief orders to Colonel 
Farrar. “Strike when you find — and wherever you 
find — Kill Eagle’s Band.” 

Tearful eyes along officers’ row, watching the 
silent group at headquarters, told all too plainly 
with what dread the tidings had been received. 
With the wires down, the railway blockaded, the 
stage road deep in snow, there was only one means 
of communication left, and two Indian scouts on 
their hardy ponies, leaving the field column at dawn 
the previous day, had made their unerring way 
through the trackless maze of snow-clad ridge, ravine, 
divide and coulee, through a labyrinth of Bad Lands, 
bad enough in midsummer, and across many a frozen 
creek, until at last they struck the northern shore of 
the swollen Platte, and followed on up stream until 
opposite old Fort Frayne, 

20 


FORT FRAYNE. 


21 


And now, indeed, was the road to the ferry broken 
and plowed and speedily trodden hard, for hosts of 
stalwart men had rushed to the river side, and out 
from its winter hiding place they dragged one of the 
huge pontoon boats and launched it in the ice-whirl- 
ing flood, and the sweeps were manned by brawny 
arms in blue, and with boat hooks driving at the ice 
cakes and the foam flying from the oar blades and 
from under the blunt and sloping prow, cheered 
from the southern shore, they fought their way to 
where, like black, silent statues, the riders waited 
at the brink and then Indians and ponies both were 
bundled aboard and ferried back again, landing two 
hundred yards down stream; but even before they 
could breast the bluffs and carry their dispatches to the 
cavalry chief, the news they bore was shouted up the 
heights: ‘‘Red Wolf escaped — Kill Eagle’s whole 
village has jumped for the Bad Lands.” 

And that meant that the Twelfth must drop its 
Christmasing and fetch the wanderers home. The 
old, old story told again, and just as it had been 
time and time before. Absurdity in the Indian pol- 
icy; mismanagement in the Indian bureau; starva- 
tion in the Indian villages; murmuringsof discontent 
among the old warriors; talk of summary action 
among the young braves; emissaries from disaffected 
bands; midnight councils, harangues, dances, threats, 
an arrest or two, escape, and then a general rush to 
join the hostiles in the field. 

Prompt to act on this occasion, as ever before, the 
moment he was enabled to learn, through the cha- 


22 


FORT FRAYNE. 


grined officials of the Indian bureau, of the escape of 
this turbulent leader, and the flight of Kill Eagle’s 
people from the agency, the general commanding 
in the field dispatched a small force of cavalry to 
interpose between the latter and the large bands of 
hostiles already lurking in the Bad Lands, and, giv- 
ing the commander of this force instructions to turn 
Kill Eagle westward, and by steady pursuit keep 
him “on the jump” toward his old hunting grounds 
behind the Black Hills, he sent couriers across coun- 
try post haste to Frayne, with orders for Colonel Far- 
rar to start at once with his entire force — four fine 
troops of the Twelfth Cavalry — to cross the Platte at 
the first possible point, and by forced marches throw 
himself across the Indians’ front and strive to hem 
them in. With the Platte sweeping along as it 
was, bank full, a crossing might be impossible 
nearer than the rocky shallows at the Fetterman 
Bend, but that made no difference; prompt action 
was the thing. 

More than half expecting just such a contingency, 
Farrar had long since completed his preparations. 
His packers and their lively mules had been kept in 
trim. Ten days’ rations were always set aside in 
readiness to be packed on the apparejos the moment 
word should come. Boxes of extra ammunition for 
carbine and revolver were stacked up in the ord- 
nance storeroom, ready to be lashed, two to each, 
on the sturdy little burden-bearers’ backs. Double 
sacks of grain, precious as powder on a winter cam- 
paign, were banked at the quartermaster’s corral. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


23 


Every trooper’s winter kit of fur cap, gloves, fur- 
lined canvas coat, boots, blankets and reinforced 
breeches had been carefully inspected only a day or 
two before. Every horse had been as carefully shod. 
Extra shoes and shoe hails had been stored in each 
pair of saddle bags. The horses themselves in their 
warm, thick winter coats and uncropped manes and 
tails, looked shaggy and far from ‘‘swell” from the 
point of view of the eastern avenues, but were emi- 
nently fit for campaigning among the blizzards of the 
plains; and as for the men, they were serving under 
a soldier who didn’t believe in letting troopers grow 
“soft” and out of condition even in midwinter, and 
so, no matter what the weather, Farrar had had his 
people out for exercise every weekday of the year, 
and the exercise during the snowstorm had consisted 
in breaking roads in long compact column of fours 
all around the plateau on which stood the great 
spreading garrison, and the men liked it, and throve 
under it, and came in each day glowing with health, 
to the enjoyment of their substantial dinner, vowing 
the colonel knew no end of tricks worth their study- 
ing, even if he wasn’t a West Pointer, even if he had 
gone into the army “from the militia” in the old 
days of the war. 

And now that all their Christmas fun seemed sum- 
marily ended and they themselves were to be hurried 
forth upon a sharp and sudden campaign, they 
sprang to their preparations with cheery vim, almost 
with eager rejoicing. For three weeks they had 
been excitedly reading and discussing the reports pf 


24 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the doings of their comrade regiment, the Eleventh, 
around the agency far to the east, and coveting their 
prominence and distinction. Already they had en- 
viously heard of one or two sharp affairs in which 
the Eleventh had rounded up a party of young war- 
riors breaking for the Cheyenne country, or had sur 
rounded and disarmed Tall Bull’s little band of ugly 
‘‘ bluffers.” Even at the expense of Christmas trees, 
Christmas dance, Christmas dinner, they didn’t want 
to loaf in garrison when other regiments were hav- 
ing stirring service in the field. And so, while 
women wept, the barracks rang with shout and song 
and cheery whistle, and the laugh and joke went 
around as the troopers stowed their treasures in the 
home chest and packed their bulging saddlebags. 
Few of their number had wives or children to leave 
behind. It was over among the officers’ quarters 
that no laughter rang, and the only smiles were pit- 
eous through their mist of tears. 

“I could bear it better at any other season, Royle,” 
said the colonel’s wife, as she clung, sobbing, to his 
neck after he had donned his rough field dress. “It 
seems as though the worst blow of my life had come 
to me at Christmas just this time.” He bowed in 
silence, tenderly kissing her, yet even then checking 
further reference to that crowning sorrow. He 
could not shut out the recollection of how the news 
of their boy’s disgrace had been received on Christ- 
mas morning, and now with another Christmas so 
close at hand, he was keeping from her tidings that 
still more had bowed his head in sorrow uncontrollable 


FOET FEAYNE. 


25 


— that his wretched son had robbed, deceived and de- 
serted the sweet woman who had trusted him, leav- 
her penniless to struggle unaided and unknown. Who 
can say what would have been his shame had he 
dreamed that this genial, kindly young New Yorker, 
this stranger within his gates, was the bearer of evi- 
dence that still further was the son a felon in the 
eyes of the law, and that to all his other crimes 
Royle Farrar had added that of forgery? At noon this 
very day Jack Ormsby was striving to nerve him- 
self to carry out his employer’s orders and break the 
tidings, but those few words of the gentle mother, 
and the sight of her pathetic face again unmanned 
him, and in the midst of his irresolution came these 
sudden orders to the field, and that put an end to all 
thought of anything else. 

‘‘ I cannot help it,” he was saying to Ellis, as the 
girl, pale and sad, but uncomplaining, was busily 
packing her father’s mess chest. * ‘ It would be ridicu- 
lous to say I could be of any use, but all the 
same I want to go. It’s the chance of a lifetime. I 
have never seen an Indian campaign. I haven’t an 
idea what an Indian fight is like; but, do you know, 
I could’nt go back and face our fellows of the Sev- 
enth and tell them I saw the Twelfth Cavalry start 
on its rush to head off Kill Eagle’s band, and that I 
didn’t go, too.” 

“I should want to go if I were in your place,” 
said she. ‘‘I understand it fully. No doubt Cap- 
tain Leale can fit you out with campaign clothing, — 
everything you need — 


26 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘‘Then I certainly shall go,” said Ormsby. “ It’ll 
be something to tell about in ‘ I ’ company for the 
next ten years.” 

And that was how it happened that five days 
later, in a blinding snowstorm, there rode with the 
advance of the Twelfth Cavalry a sergeant of the 
famous New York Seventh at the very moment when 
the word came from the scouts that Kill Eagle’s 
village was not two miles ahead. 

Left to his own devices in the matter of carrying 
out his orders, Farrar had made a close and careful 
calculation. With the Laramie road out of sight in 
snow it might take three days of hard marching to 
reach the ford, with the prospect then of finding 
themselves almost as far from the Indians as before, 
for the fords lay some ninety miles off to the south- 
east, while, when last heard from. Kill Eagle was 
striking across the country south of the Cheyenne 
between the Upper Niobrara and the Mini Pusa. In 
the deep valleys were scattered ranches and countless 
herds of horned cattle, so he was living high on the 
country as he fied, his rear well guarded by three 
score young braves, who hovered just ahead of the 
pursuing column, peppering its advance guard with 
long-range shots from every ridge, and so retarding 
its movement as to enable their old war chief to 
move his whole village, tepees, lodge poles, women 
and children, pony herd, dog herd, and all, with 
calm deliberation. By going southeast Farrar 
would have taken the flooded Platte alongside on 
his left band, only to have to turn an acute angle tp 


FORT FRAYNE. 


27 


the north again, march them over rough and. broken 
country, with old Rawhide Butte, perhaps, as his 
guide, with every probability of finding himself far 
behind the chase after reaching the broad, deep-lying 
valley of the Niobrara. Wiser by far, he sent back 
brief word by courier to Laramie, ordering it for- 
warded by wire from that point. 

<^We go westward up the Platte, confident of 
lower water and a crossing this side of the big bend. 
Thence we will swing around northeastward, and, 
covering a broad stretch of country, keep sharp 
lookout for Kill Eagle’s band. We should meet him 
somewhere among the breaks of the Mini Pusa, 
southeast of old Cantonment Reno, and, unless they 
will surrender, I shall strike at once and strike 
hard.” 

And here among the breaks of the Mini Pusa, 
after four days of severe winter marching, Farrar 
had thrown his little command just as he had 
planned, square across the path of the foe. Direful 
were the tales that had reached him from ranchmen 
and settlers, who, having abandoned their homes, 
were fieeing for the protection of the frontier forts, 
far back at the base of the Big Horn. Day after 
day had the young warriors swooped from the 
traveling village down upon the valleys on either 
side, murdering men, women and little children, 
burning the ranches, driving off such cattle as they 
fancied, and ruthlessly butchering all the rest. And 
still, one or two days’ march behind, the pursu- 
ing column plunged heavily through the snow. 


28 


FORT FRAYNE. 


Farrar was an expert, however, and had shrewdly- 
judged their route. Farrar was merciful, and even 
in the face of the atrocities that had been committed 
and undei the warrant of his orders and in the 
belief that the band was few in numbers, he would 
not strike when the blow might fall on women and 
children, too, until he had given the red chief a 
chance of surrender. 

He had been marching since dawn and it was now 
11 o’clock. An hour earlier, far out at the front 
along a low, snow-covered ridge that stood out 
sharply against the black bank of cloud that spread 
from horizon almost to zenith, the scouts began that 
fierce sudden circling of their ponies that denoted 
‘‘enemy in sight.” With their field glasses the 
officers at the head of the column could see that one 
of the number, dismounted, was lying close to the 
crest, peering cautiously over and signaling excitedly 
to his fellows who kept well behind him down the 
slope. They, in turn, were signaling to the column, 
and, leaving Leale in command with orders to move 
steadily on, the colonel put spurs to his horse — old 
Roderick — and followed by his adjutant and an 
orderly or two, cantered on out to the front. Ormsby, 
riding at the moment with Leale at the head of the 
first troop, felt a thrill of excitement as the captain 
coolly interpreted the meaning of the rapid move- 
ments of the scouts. Eagerly, too, the men seemed 
to rouse from the almost slumberous condition of the 
command after its hours of plodding, and a murmur 
ran back from troop to troop: “Indians ahead! 


POUT FKAYNE. 


29 


Now for it, fellows!” And then all eyes were 
strained on that low ridge against the sky line, and 
unconsciously the horses seemed to close up toward 
the head of the column, answering, perhaps, some 
involuntary pressure of the knees, for suddenly, 
while the leading troop continued its placid gait — the 
swift, steady, four-mile walk — those in the rear of 
the column broke into a jog trot and never resumed 
the walk again until the cautioning voice and 
hand of the captain seemed to restrain them. And 
then they could see that Colonel Farrar, reaching the 
ridge, had himself dismounted, and was lying on the 
snow and peering over as Little Bat had done before 
him. Still no word came to accelerate the march, 
and, at the same steady walk the long column, mov- 
ing by fours here, for the prairie was wide and open 
and comparatively level, pushed on for the distant 
ridge, and when at last they came within hailing 
distance of the group at the front the adjutant 
slowly raised his hand and gave the signal, “Halt ! ” 
and in an instant the snake-like column stood in its 
tracks and the men swung out of saddle and began 
dancing and thrashing their arms in the effort to 
start the sluggish blood. 

All the morning it had been threatening snow, 
and now it was sifting slowly down, but presently 
the flakes fell thicker and thicker, and then in a 
dense cloud that soon shut out even the crest ahead of 
them. Captain Leale, a calm, thoughtful battalion 
commander, picked out certain level-headed ser- 
geants, and sent them, with a few men each, out to 


30 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the right and left front and flank, so as to guard 
against surprise, and then as the men danced about 
in the snow and sparred or wrestled laughingly, 
many and many were the conjectures as to the cause 
of the halt and delay. What are we waiting for? 
Why don’t we pitch in?” were the queries that 
passed from lip to lip, and many were the inquiring 
glances toward the little group of officers smoking 
and talking, and chaffing Ormsby at the head of the 
column. With an Indian village barely a mile 
away, an Indian flght probably not an hour ahead, 
the Twelfth was taking things as coolly as befitted 
the season, and Ormsby, after looking once more to 
the chamber of his revolver and trying the breech 
block of his Springfield carbine, joined in the chat 
with all the coolness he could command, and strove 
to appear more interested in what was being said 
than in the immediate business at hand. 

And yet when the adjutant came riding rapidly 
back from the ridge, there was instant movement to 
meet him. , 

‘^What’s the trouble, Jimmy?” was the query on 
many a tongue. ‘‘What are we waiting for?” 

‘ ‘ They’re going regularly into camp — putting up 
their tepees,” was the answer. “ It looks as though 
they were waiting to palaver with the pursuit. The 
colonel thinks they’re willing to come to terms 
rather than march further in such weather. I sup- 
pose the Eleventh can’t be very far behind them, 
and as yet they don’t suspect we’re over here at all. 


^’OET i’EAYKifi. 


31 


Luckily for us, too,” said he, gravely, ‘‘for it’s two 
to one in their favor, if I’m any judge at all.” 

“The devil you say! How many lodges are 
there? ” 

“Bat says nigh onto seventy, though they’re not 
all up yet, and you can’t see a thing now for the 
snow. The old rip must have been reinforced 
heavily. There seem to be two or three bands 
rolled into one. What I can’t understand is how 
the Eleventh happens to be so far behind. W'e 
thought they were right at their heels. I hate to 
think how the settlers down the Dry Fork must 
have suffered.” 

“Seen or heard anything of them — or of any 
refugees?” 

“ Yes; two outfits passed up the valley going for 
all they were worth this morning. Bat and Chaska 
saw them from the ridge yonder to the south. The 
scouts say they abandoned their wagons and took to 
their horses.” 

Even as they were speaking there came indi- 
cations of some unusual object off to the right rear 
of the column. One or two ofiicers and men were 
seen to ride out in that direction, and were quickly 
swallowed up in the snow -cloud. A sergeant com- 
ing up from the rear saluted Captain Leale, and said: 
“Captain Amory’s compliments, sir, and there are 
some mounted men coming in who seem about 
played out. He thinks they’re settlers seeking pro- 
tection.” 


32 


FOET FEAYNE. 


And presently this proved to be the case. Out 
from the fleecy clouds there soon came in sight four 
or five horseman slowly escorting one or two riders 
on broken down and exhausted quadrupeds, and 
there was a general movement on the part of half 
the men of the Twelfth to leave their linked horses 
and gather about these new arrivals* There were 
two men, rough bearded, typical frontiersmen, 
garbed in the roughest of plain’s wear — men with 
faces so drawn and haggard with terror and suffer- 
ing that they did not brighten even with the joy of 
reaching the protection of a strong force of cavalry. 
There was a third, a man heavily bearded like his 
associates, but with dress of costlier make, with 
features that told of gentler birth than theirs, but 
whose eyes, shifting, restless, filled with a dread as 
great as theirs, gave no symptom of reassurance. 
Like shipwrecked mariners on the broad ocean, they 
had sought the succor of the first craft that came in 
sight, but even now seemed to dread the storm and to 
doubt the stability, the safety of the rescuing ship. 
‘‘How many men have you? ” they had eagerly asked, 
and when told two hundred and twenty had wrung their 
hands and implored their first rescuers not to dare 
confront the Indians, who were at least a thousand 
strong. “ They have wiped out everything in the 
valleys below, fired every ranch, murdered every 
man. They’ve got a dozen of our women prisoners 
now in that very camp, and the first thing they’ll 
do will be to butcher them if you attack. For the 
love of God come away,” they implored, “ and let 


FORT FRAYKE. 


33 


them by. The troops in pursuit must be fifty miles 
behind.” 

Thus eagerly, incoherently, the two ranchmen 
said their say. The third was strangely silent, yet 
seemed to be full as eager to get away. 

‘‘What say you to this story?” asked the young 
lieutenant, who had ridden out to bring them in. 

“It’s all God’s truth! ” was the answer. “You’ll 
oe wiped off the face of the earth if you attack. 
Give us some provisions — hardtack, bacon — any- 
thing, and some grain for our horses, and let us 
go.” 

“Well, you’ll have to come in and see the com- 
manding officer first,” was the short reply. “ He’ll 
decide after hearing your story.” 

“ What’s his name? ” asked the stranger. 

“ Colonel Farrar.” 

“ Farrar! Is this the Twelfth Cavalry? I thought 
they were ordered to Arizona.” 

“We were, but the devil’s work of the ghost 
dance keeps us here. Now follow, and we’ll get 
you something to eat.” 

But the stranger said that he would go no further 
to the front. “I’m too near that cursed band now,” 
he protested, shaking his fist through the wintry 
air. ‘ ‘ Go, you, Mullen, and see the colonel. Get 
what help you can. I’m too weak to ride until I 
can have something to eat.” 

Even then it was noticed that Mullen and his 
friend seemed anything but cordial to their compan- 
ion. “Damn him!” they growled, as, sullenly, 


34 


FOET FEAYNE. 


they left him dismounting at the pack train. ‘‘ His 
saddlebags are crammed with meat. He hasn’t suf- 
fered. Other men stayed and fought and tried to de- 
fend Crawford’s ranch and Morgan’s. They are dead, 
poor devils, but that sneak who calls himself Graice, 
he only came among us six weeks ago, and if he ain’t 
a jailbird I’m no judge. He’s afraid to see your 
colonel, lieutenant. That’s what I believe.” And 
when Captain Leale heard their story at the head of 
the column he called to his orderly, mounted and 
rode back through the falling snow. 

‘‘Where is that third refugee? ” he asked of the 
pack master, “that man they call Graice.” 

“He was here just this minute, sir. He’s worse 
scared than the others. He wants to go on. There 
he goes now, by God! He’s lighting out by himself . ” 

Just then there came a movement along the col- 
umn. Every trooper was springing to his horse. 
“They’re mounting, sir,” said the orderly. But the 
captain was staring fixedly after the disappearing 
rider, who clapping spurs to his jaded bronco was 
hurrying away. ‘ ‘ Where on earth have I seen that 
form before?” said Leale to himself. “Orderly, 
ride after that lunatic and bring him in here. What? ” 
he asked, turning quickly about in his saddle as a 
trumpeter came trotting to his side. “ Move where? ” 

“ Off to the right, sir. The adjutant is leading the 
way,” and peering through the fast falling fiakes, 
the battalion commander saw the dim figures of the 
horsemen already in motion. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


35 


‘^Come on with your packs, Harry,’’ he called to 
the chief packer, ‘‘and when that fellow returns, 
send him to the front.” 

Five minutes more and they were stumbling down 
into the depths of one of the deep ravines which 
opened out from the valley of the frozen stream to 
the eastward. Then, and without a word of com- 
mand or trumpet call — only the uplifted hand of the 
troop leaders and observant sergeants, — the column 
halted. “Dismount! ” was passed in low tone from 
front to rear. “Silence now! No noise, men. Stand 
to horse! ” were the muttered cautions, and then once 
again the foremost officers gathered in a little group 
about the two refugees. 

“We’ll fight with you gladly. Count us in,” said 
one of them, refreshed by a long pull at Ormsby’s 
fiask. “ But that sneak that slipped away would see 
you all in hell first. He’s a fugitive in more senses 
than one. That man’s fieeing from the law.” 

“ How do you know? Have you any idea who he 
is and where he came from? ” asked Captain Leale. 
“I didn’t see his face, but somewhere before this 
day I’ve seen his back.” 

“I don’t know him from Adam. He was on his 
way to the Black Hills when the Indians jumped the 
reservation and cut us off. He’s been afraid to go 
ahead and afraid to go back, and he’s just been stay- 
ing there with us — seemed to have plenty of money, 
but there ain’t a white man left alive from here to 
the South Cheyenne now.” 


36 


FORT FRAYNF. 


And then in silent respect the group opened and 
made way for the gray-mustached soldier who rode 
slowly into their midst and addressed them in low, 
quiet tones: 

‘‘Look to your men and horses, gentlemen. Big 
as that village is, I think that all the warriors are 
not there, and our best plan will be to attack before 
they can send and call in those who are watching the 
pursuing column. We will attack at once.” 


CHAPTER III. 


The snow was falling now in a dense white mist, 
powdering beards and broad-brimmed campaign hats 
and silvering the dusty black of the fur caps of the 
men. Objects fifty feet away were invisible, and 
all sounds muffled by the soft, fieecy blanket that 
everywhere covered the earth. Silently, yet with 
soldierly alertness, the offlcers hastened to look 
quickly over their troops. Silently the veteran col- 
onel turned once more to the front and rode a few 
yards out beyond the head of the column and sat 
there on his horse, a white mantled statue, peering 
intently through the slowly falling fiakes. 

‘‘We move the moment Bat gets back,” mur- 
mured the adjutant to Captain Leale. ‘ ‘ He crawled out 
to locate the herds and pick our way. There are 
some cross gullies beyond that ridge and down near 
the village. Bat says he feels sure most of the war- 
riors are miles away to the east, but — there are 
enough and to spare right here. ” 

“Is Kill Eagle still to be given a chance to sur- 
render?” asked Leale. “That was the understand- 
ing at one time, wasn’t it? ” 

“That was it — yes, and Bat was to hail as soon as 
we deployed within striking distance. Unless some 
scouts or the ponies find us out, we can creep up 
under this snow cloud to within a few yards, and 
they’ll be none the wiser. The colonel hoped that 

87 


38 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the show of force would be ample and that the old 
scoundrel would throw up the sponge right here, but 
— I don’t know,” he added, doubtfully. ‘‘If only 
the women and children weren’t in that village, it 
would be simple enough. We could pitch in and 
double them up before they knew what struck them. 
As it is — ” and here the young officer broke off with a 
wave of the hand that meant volumes of doubt. 
Then he turned and looked eastward again to where, 
silent and stauesque still. Colonel Farrar was seated 
on old Roderick. 

The same thought seemed to occur to both officers 
at the same instant. Ormsby, once more testing the 
lock of his revolver and narrowly observing his new 
comrades, remarked it at the time * and spoke of it 
often thereafter. 

“Can’t you make him keep well back?” asked 
Leale. 

“Won’t you remind the chief he oughtn’t to be in 
the front?” asked the adjutant. 

And then each shook his head, as though realizing 
the impossibility of getting their old war horse of a 
colonel to take a position where he would be less ex- 
posed to the fire of the Indian marksmen. 

“ You might give him a tip, Ormsby,” said the 
adjutant, in the cheery confidence the comradeship a 
few days’ campaigning engenders. “You are his 
guest, not his subordinate. Tell him what the Sev- 
enth thinks the colonel should do,” he added, with 
an attempt at jocularity that somehow failed to pro* 
voke a smile. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


39 


But Ormsby in turn shook his head. ‘‘I haven’t 
known your colonel a week,” said he, ‘‘but I’ve 
learned to know him well, and when he means to go 
in, all you’ve got to do is to go, too. That’s what 
I’ve mapped out for myself, and doubtless so, too, 
have these gentlemen,” he continued, indicating the 
two ranchmen, now eagerly fingering their Win- 
chesters and getting ready for business. The elder 
of the two it was who answered: 

“No man who has been through what we have, 
and seen the sights and heard the sounds of their 
raids on the ranches down the Fork, would do less 
than thank God for a chance of meeting those brutes 
on anything like equal terms. My poor brother 
lies there, hacked and scalped and mutilated; his 
wife and daughter, I believe, are somewhere among 
those foul tepees now, unless God has been merciful 
and let them die day before yesterday. We fought 
as long as there was a show, and we got away in 
the dark. These poor women wouldn’t leave their 
dead.” 

A tear was tickling down his cheek as he finished 
speaking, but his lips and jaws were firm set. 
“ You gentlemen,” he continued, “are going into 
this thing just from sense of duty, but think what it 
is to me and to young Crawford here. His old father 
and mother were just butchered, by God! — butchered 
— and the worst of it is that if that damned hound 
Graice had stood by him ten minutes he might 
have got them safely away. They were too old to 
make any time, and it was no use. That fellow’s a 


40 


FORT FRAYNE. 


white-livered pup, and if I ever come upon him 
again I’ll tell him what I think of him.” 

‘‘I wish you had seen that fellow, Ormsby,” said 
Leale, in a low tone ‘‘ The more I think of it, the 
more I feel sure he had some reason for fearing to 
meet our party here. They tell me he seemed ex- 
cited and worried the moment he heard we were 
the Twelfth Cavalry. I only saw his back as he 
rode away, but I’ve seen that man before some- 
where. He rode like a trooper, and it’s ten to one 
he’s a deserter.” 

He’s a deserter this day if he never was before,” 
said Ormsby in reply. ‘‘I judge we need every 
man, do we not? ” 

^ ‘ Looks like it, ’ ’ was the brief reply. ‘ ‘ All right, 
gentlemen? ” he continued, turning with courteous 
manner to the two younger officers, his first and 
second lieutenants, who came striding up through 
the snow. Leale was famous in the cavalry for his 
subalterns. He had the reputation of never speak- 
ing hastily or harshly, and of getting more out of 
his men than any other captain in the regiment. 

All right, sir!” was the prompt reply. ‘‘Every 
man in my platoon boiling over with ginger, ’ ’ added 
the younger, his blue eyes flashing, though his 
cheeks were pale and his lips twitching with pent-up 
excitement. 

“I see the guidon is being unfurled, Cramer,” 
said the captain, quietly. “Perhaps Sergeant West 
wants to land it first in the village, but tell him to 
handle his revolver instead, if we charge,” and 


FORT FRAYNS. 


41 


touching his fur cap, the officer turned back. ‘‘The 
colonel has said nothing about the plan of attack. 
We may be going to charge right in, for all I know. 
Ha! Ormsby, there comes the word! ” 

Looming up through the snow a young German 
trooper rode rapidly back toward the little group, 
and, reining in his horse a few yards away, true to 
the etiquette of the craft, threw his carbine over his 
shoulder and started to dismount before addressing 
officers afoot, but Leale checked him. “ Never mind 
dismounting, orderly. What’s the message?” 

“The colonel’s compliments, sir, and he would 
wish to see Captain Leale a minute, and the command 
will mount and move slowly forward. ’ ’ 

Instantly the group dissolved, each officer turning 
quickly to his horse and swinging into saddle. No 
trumpet signal was given. “Mount,” said Leale, 
in the same quiet, conversational tone. “Mount,” 
repeated the first sergeant, halted alongside the lead- 
ing set of fours, and, all in a few seconds, the burly 
forms of the riders shot up in the eddying fleece, and 
every horse, far back as eye could penetrate the mist, 
was suddenly topped by an armed rider. Then, 
first thing, the fur-gloved right hands went up to the 
shoulder and drew over the little brown carbines 
and drove the muzzle through its socket. Then, 
in the same soldierly silence the horsemen edged in 
toward the center of each set, and there sat, boot to 
to boot, erect and ready. One or two spirited young 
horses began to paw the snow in their impatience, 
and to snort excitedly. The adjutant trotted briskly 


42 


FORT FRAYISIE. 


back along the column in order to see that all four 
troops were similarly ready, cautioned the rearward 
troop leaders to keep well closed on the head of the 
column and signaled ‘‘ Forward,” while Leale dis- 
appeared in the snow clouds ahead. 

Not knowing what else to do, Ormsby ranged 
alongside the senior lieutenant of Leale’ s troop, as in 
perfect silence the column bore steadily on. A few 
seconds brought them in sight of the colonel’s form 
again, and he waved his hand cheerily, as though to 
say, ‘‘All right, lads, come on.” Then, sitting 
Roderick as squarely as ever, the gray-mustached 
commander took the lead, a swarthy half-breed Sioux 
scout riding on one side, the grave, soldierly Leale 
on the other. The adjutant, the chief trumpeter, 
sergeant major, and orderlies fell in behind, and the 
crack battalion of the old Twelfth rode noiselessly in 
to take position for the attack. 

For perhaps a hundred yards they follo^ved the 
windings of the ravine in which they had been con- 
cealed, had concealment been necessary. Then, 
turning abruptly to his left as he passed a projecting 
shoulder, Little Bat looked back and motioned to the 
colonel, ‘ ‘ This way. ’ ’ And then the leading horse- 
men began to ascend a gentle and almost imi^er- 
ceptible slope, for the snow was sifting down so 
thick and fast that the surface was invisible thirty feet 
ahead. 

“We might ride square in among them at this 
rate^” jnuttered the sergeant-major to’ his friend, the 


FORT FRAYNE. 


43 


chief trumpeter, ‘ ^ and never know it until we 
stumbled into the tepees.” 

‘‘ How far ahead is it? ” asked the latter. 

‘‘A mile, they say. We’d be deployed by this 
time if it were less.” 

Less than five minutes of gradual ascent, and the 
crest of the divide was reached, and, one after 
another, every horseman realized that he was then on 
the downward slope of the eastern side. Somewhere 
ahead, somewhere between this ridge and its nearest 
neighbor, lay the hostile village, all unconscious of 
foemen’s coming, looking for disturbers as yet only 
from the eastern side. Old cavalrymen used to de- 
clare their horses could smell an Indian village be- 
fore the sharpest eyes could ‘ ‘ sight ” it, and the 
packers swore the statement was true, ‘‘if it were 
only made of the mule.” 

“The colonel knows. He hasn’t forgotten, you 
bet,” was the comment, as again the orderly rode 
swiftly rearward with orders for the pack train to 
halt just west of the crest, and then every man 
seemed to know that the village couldn’t be far 
ahead, and some hands went nervously to the 
holster flaj)S, others loosened the carbines in their 
leather sockets, and men took furtive peeps at one 
another’s faces along the shadowy column, and then 
at their officers riding so confident and erect along 
the left flank. And still no man could see more than 
the depth of three sets of fours ahead. “ Ain’t we 
going to dismount and go afoot? ” muttered a young 


44 


FORT FRAYNE. 


recruit to his neighbor. thought that was the 
way we always did.” 

“ Of course; when one could see to shoot and 
would be seen himself anywhere within five miles,” 
was the disdainful answer. ‘‘ What’d be the good 
of dismounting here?” 

And now in places the horses plunged deeper into 
the snow and tossed up drifting clouds of feathery 
spray as the column crossed some shallow ruts in 
the eastward face, and then once more, snakelike, it 
began to twist and turn, following the track of those 
invisible guides, and then it seemed to take to evil 
courses and go spluttering down into sharp, steep- 
banked coulees, and scrambling out again on the 
Other side, and still the sure-footed horses tripped 
nimbly on, and then, presently, his eyes a-twinkle, 
the adjutant came riding back. 

‘‘Just half a mile ahead, Billy,” he murmured to 
the lieutenant riding in Leale’s place at the head of 
the first troop. “ Form left front into line and halt. 
I’ll post the other troop.” 

Quickly the young officer reined out of column to 
the left about. “Keep straight to your front, lead- 
ing four,” he cautioned. Then barely raising his 
voice and dropping for the time the conventional 
commands of the drill book, he rode back along 
the column, saying “Left front into line,” until all 
the rearward fours were obliquing; then back to the 
front he trotted, halted the leading set, each of the 
others in succession reining in and generally align- 
ing itself, all without a sound that could be audible 


J’ORT FRAYNE. 


45 


ten yards away. Almost at the same time the sec- 
ond troop headed diagonally off to the left and pres- 
ently rode up into line with the first, while the third 
and fourth were halted in similar formation at troop 
distance in rear. ‘‘By all that’s glorious, we’re 
going in mounted!” was the word that seemed to 
thrill down along the line. “Then we’re not going 
to wait — not going to give him a chance to sur- 
render.” 

Another moment and the word was, “Hush! 
silence there!” for dimly seen through the drifts, the 
colonel, with his little party of attendants, came 
riding to the front of the line. Long, long after- 
ward they remembered that clear-cut, soldierly, high- 
bred face, with its aquiline nose, keen, kindly, 
deep-set eyes, the gray- white mustache, snow-white 
now, as was his close-cropped hair. 

“ Men,” said he in the firm tones they had known 
so long and well, “fully half the band are some miles 
away, but Kill Eagle, with over a hundred warriors, 
is right here in our front; so, too, are his women 
and children; so, too, worse luck, are some of our 
own unhappy captives. You all know the first thing 
those Indians would do, were we to attack as usual, 
would be to murder those poor white women. This 
snowstorm is in our favor. We can creep right 
in upon them before we charge. The ponies are 
down in the valley to the south. Let the first line 
dash straight through the village and stampede the 
herd, then rally and return. Let the second follow 
at a hundred yards and surround the tepees at the 


46 


^'ORT FRAYNE. 


eastward end — what white Avomen are Avith them are 
there. The Indian men, as a rule, Avill make a dash 
in the direction of the ponies. Shoot them doAvn 
wherever you can, but mark my words noAv, be care- 
ful of the women and children. I had intended 
summoning Kill Eagle to surrender, but we did not 
begin to know he had so many warriors close at 
hand, and did not know about the captives. Bat 
has seen, and that is enough. There is no other 
way to settle it. It’s the one chance of rescuing 
those poor creatures. Now keep together. Watch 
your officers’ commands and signals and spare the 
squaws and papooseS. Be ready in two minutes.” 

And then every man took a long breath, while the 
colonel rode through to say similar words to the sec- 
ond line. Then, returning, he placed himself just 
in the rear of the center of the first squadron, the 
second line noiselessly advancing and closing up on 
the leaders, and then he seemed to think of another 
point. 

Ask Mr. Ormsby if he will ride with me,” said 
he to the adjutant. ‘^Now, Leale, forAA^ard at a 
walk. Follow Bat. It’s all level ahead of you. 
You’ll sight the village in three or four minutes. 

The tall, stalwart captain touched his hat, took off 
his ‘‘broadbrim,” shaking away a load of snow, and 
spurred out a little to the front. There, looking back 
to both his right and left, he gave the signal forAvard, 
and with almost a single impulse, the long dark rank 
of horsemen, open at the center in an interval of 
some half a dozen yards, without other sound than 


FORT FRAYNF. 


47 


the slight rattle of accoutrements and the muffled 
rumble of five hundred hoofs, moved steadily forward. 
A moment the colonel sat and watched them, smiled a 
cordial greeting to Ormsby, who, pistol in hand, 
came trotting over with the adjutant, then signaling 
to the second line, he too gave his horse the rein, and 
at a steady walk followed close to the center of Leale’s 
command. In his hand at the moment he held a lit- 
tle pocket compass, and smiled as he noted the line 
of direction. 

‘^Almost due southeast at this instant,” said he. 
‘‘We ought to bag our game and be well across the 
Mini Pusa with them in less than an hour.” 

Unconsciously the pace was quickening. Fore- 
most of all, well out in front of the center, rode the 
half-breed Indian guide, bending low over his pony’s 
neck, his black, beady eyes peering ahead. Well 
out to the right and left were other scouts, eager and 
alert, like Bat himself. Then, squarely in the cen- 
ter, on his big, powerful bay, rode Leale, commander 
of the foremost line, and Ormsby’s soldierly heart 
throbbed with admiration as he marked, just before 
Leale was hidden from view, his spirited, confident 
bearing, and noted how the eyes of all the line seemed 
fixed on their gallant leader. And now some of 
the horses began to dance and tug at the bit and 
plunge, and others to take a jog trot, for the Indian 
scouts were at the lope, and their gesticulations be- 
came every moment more vehement, and then Bat was 
seen, though visible only to the first line, to grab his 
revolver, and Leale’s gauntleted hand almost instantly 


4S 


I'ORT FRAYNE. 


sought the holster, and out came the ready Colt, its 
muzzle raised in air. Out in quick and ready imita- 
tion leaped a hundred more, and instinctively the jog 
changed to a lively trot, and the dull, thudding hoofs 
upon the snow-muffled earth rose louder and more 
insistent, and Ormsby, riding at the colonel’s left, 
gripped tighter his revolver and set his teeth, yet 
felt his heart was hammering loud, and then dimmer 
and dimmer grew the first line as it led away, and 
still the colonel’s firm hand kept Roderick dancing 
impatiently at the slower gait and then, just as it 
seemed as though the line would be swallowed up in 
snow and disappear from view, quick and sudden, 
two muffled shots were heard from somewhere just 
in front, the first syllable perhaps of some stentorian 
shout of warning, and then one magnificent burst of 
cheers and a rush of charging men, and a crash and 
a crackle and sputter of shots, and then fierce rally- 
ing cries and piercing screams of women and of ter- 
rified little ones, and like some huge human wave the 
first line of the Twelfth rode on and over and 
through the startled camp, and bore like a whirlwind, 
yelling down upon the pony herds beyond. 

And now comes the turn of the second line. Seek- 
ing shelter from the snowstorm, warriors, women and 
children were for the most part within the tepees, as 
the line crashed in. Some few were with the miser- 
able captives, but at the first sound of danger every 
warrior had seized his rifie and rushed for the open 
air. Some few, throwing themselves upon their 
faces, fired wild shots at the foremost troopers as 


FOKT DS'RAYKE. 


4S 


they came bounding through, but as a rule only a 
few opposed their passage, so sudden was the shock. 

Then came the realization that the herds were 
being driven, and that not an instant must be lost in 
mounting such ponies as were still tethered about the 
villages, and darting away in a wdde circle, away 
from the troops, yet concentrating again beyond 
them and regaining the lead. And so, where the first 
line met an apparently sleeping village, the second 
comes cheering, charging, firing, thundering through 
a swarming mob of yelling braves and screaming 
squaws. Farrar, foremost in the charge, with the 
civilian guardsman close at his side, shouts warning 
to the Avomen, even as he empties his pistol at the 
howling men. Close at his back come Amory and 
his sorrel troop, cheering like mad, battering over 
Indians too slow to jump aside, and driving their hiss- 
ing lead at e'Very w'arrior in their path. And still 
the colonel shouts, ‘‘This way!” and Ormsby, Amory, 
and the adjutant ride at his heels, and the sorrels 
especially follow his lead, and dashing through a 
labyrinth of lodges, they rein up cheering about two 
grimy tepees at which Bat is excitedly pointing and 
the ranchmen both are shouting the names of loved 
relatives and listening eagerly for answer; and thrill- 
ing voices within are crying, “Here! Here!” and 
stalwart men, springing from saddle, are rushing in, 
pistol in hand, and tearing aside the fiimsy barriers 
that hide the rescued captives from the eyes of their 
deliverers, and the other troop, reinforced again by 
strong squads from Leale’s rallied line, are dashing 
4 


so 


roET peayKe. 


to and fro through the village, firing at the Indians 
U^ho are scurrying away. Just as Amory and the 
adjutant charge at a little knot of scowling redskins 
whose rifies are blazing at them at not a dozen yards’ 
distance, just as the good old colonel, afoot now, is 
clasping the hand of some poor woman whose last 
hope was gone but a moment before, and even while 
listening to her frantic blessings, finds time to shout 
again to his half maddened men, ‘‘Don’t hurt the 
women, lads! Look out for the children! ” a hag- 
like, blanketed fury of a Brule squaw springs from 
behind the shelter of a pile of robes, levels her I’e- 
volver, and, pulling trigger at the instant, leaj^s 
screaming down into the creek bottom, leaving Farrar 
sinking slowly into the snow. 

An hour later, with strong skirmish lines out on 
every side of the captured village, with a score of 
Indian warriors sent to their last account and the 
others scattered over the face of the earth, the little 
battalion of the Twelfth is wondering if, after all, 
the fight were worth winning, for here in their midst, 
his head on Leale’s arm, his fading sight fixed on the 
tear-dimmed eyes of his faithful comrade, here lies 
their beloved old colonel, his last messages murmured 
in that listening ear: “Leale — old friend — find — find 
that poor girl — my — my son robbed and ruined and 
deserted — and be the friend to her — you’ve been to 
me — and mine. God bless — ” 

And this — while the regiment, obeying its stern 
duty, goes on in pursuit — this is the news Jack 
Ormsby has to break to the loving, breaking hearts 
at Frayne. 


CHAPTER IV. 


All this was but part and parcel of the story of 
the old Wyoming fort. Long years had it served as 
refuge and resting place for the emigrants in the days 
before the Union Pacific was built, when the over- 
land stage Voute followed the Platte to the Sweet- 
water, and then past the Devil’s Gate and Independ- 
ence Rock, old land-marks of the Mormons,’ and on 
to the back-bone of the continent, where the mountain 
streams, springing from rocky beds not long pistol 
shot apart, flowed rippling away, the one to the Mis- 
souri and the Gulf of Mexico, the other to the Col- 
orado and that of California. Frayne was but a huge 
stockade in the early days of the civil war, but the 
government found it important from a strategical 
point of view, even after the railway spanned the 
Rockies, and the emigrant and the settler no longer 
trudged the weary trail that, bordering the Sioux 
country, became speedily a road of fire and blood, 
second only in its terrors to the Smoky Hill route 
through ‘^bleeding Kansas.” Once it was the boast 
of the Dakotas, as it has been for generations of their 
enemies, the Absarakas, or Crows, that they had 
never shed the blood of a white man. Settlers of the 
old days used to tell how the Sioux had followed 
them for long, long marches, not to murder and pil- 
lage, but to restore to them items lost along the trail 
or animals strayed from their little herds. But there 

51 


52 


FOET FEAYNE. 


came an end to all this, when, resisting an unjust de- 
mand, the Sioux beingfired upon, retaliated. From the 
day of the Grattan massacre beyond old Laramie, 
there had been no real peace with the lords of the 
Northwest. They are quiet only when subdued by 
force. They have broken the crust of their environ- 
ment time and again and burst forth in the seething 
flame of a volcano that is ever bubbling and boiling be- 
neath the feet of the frontiersman to this day. 

And so Frayne was maintained as a military post for 
years, first as a stockade, then as a sub-depot of supplies, 
garrisoned by four companies of infantry and four 
of cavalry, the former to hold the fort, the latter to 
scour the neighboring country. Then as time wore 
on and other posts were built further up in the Big 
Horn, Frayne’s garrison dwindled, but there stood 
upon its commanding bluff the low rows of wooden 
barracks, the parallel rows of double sets of broad- 
piazzaed quarters where dwelt the officers, the long, 
low, log-revetted walls of the corrals and cavalry 
stables on the flat below. Here, oddly enough, the 
Twelfth had spent a lively year or two before it 
went to Arizona. Here it learned the Sioux country 
and the Sioux so well that when, a few years back, 
the ghost dance craze swept over the plains and 
mountains like the plague, the old regiment was 
hurried from its sunshiny stations in the south and 
mustered once again, four troops at least, within the 
very walls that long before had echoed to its 
trumpets. Here we found them in the midst of 
the Christmas preparations that were turned so 


FORT FRAYNE. 


53 


suddenly into summons to. the field, and here again, 
three years later still, headquarters and six troops 
now, the proud old regiment is still at Frayne, and 
Fenton ‘‘vice-Farrar, killed in action with hostile 
Indians,” holds the command. 

A good soldier is Fenton ; a brave fellow, a trifie 
rough at times, like the simple plains-bred dragoon he 
is, but a gentleman with a gentle heart in his breast 
for all the stern exterior. Women said of him that all 
he needed to make him perfect was polish, and all he 
needed to give him polish was a wife, for at fifty-four 
the grizzled colonel was a bachelor. But Fenton had 
had his romance in early youth. He had loved with 
all his big heart, so said tradition, a New York belle 
and beauty whom he knew in his cadet days, and 
who, so rumor said, preferred another, whom she 
married before the war, and many a garrison belle 
had since set her cap for Fenton, and found him 
faithful to his early love. But, though the ladies 
often speculated as to the identity of the woman who 
had held the colonel’s heart in bondage all these 
years and blocked the way for all successors, no one 
of their number had ever heard her name or ever 
knew the truth. One officer there was in the 
Twelfth who, like Fenton himself, was a confirmed 
bachelor, and who was said to be possessed of the 
whole story, but there was no use asking Malcolm 
Leale to tell anybody’s secrets, and when Fenton 
came to Frayne, promoted to the command so 
recently held by a man they all loved and honored, 
it was patent to everybody that he felt sorely, as 


54 


FORT FRAYNE. 


though he were an usurj)er. Fenton was many long 
miles away, with another battalion of the Twelfth, 
the clay of the tragic battle on the Mini Pusa, and it 
was long months thereafter before he appeared at 
regimental headquarters, and then he brought with 
him as his housekeeper his maiden sister, Lucretia, 
and in Lucretia Fenton — the dreamiest, dowdiest, 
kindliest, quaintest, middle-aged prattler that ever 
lived, moved, and had her being in the army — the 
ladies of the Twelfth found so much to make merry 
over that they well-nigh forgot and forgave the 
unflattering indifference to feminine fascinations of 
her brother, the colonel. 

When Fenton came, the Farrars, widowed mother 
and devoted daughter, had been gone some weeks. 
The shock of her husband’s death had well-nigh 
shaken Mrs. Farrar’s reason, and for months her 
condition was indeed deplorable. Loving him 
devotedly, glorying in his soldierly record and 
rejDutation, yet ever dreading for him just such an 
end, she had been so prostrated by her grief that 
Ellis almost forgot her own bitter sorrow in the 
contemplation of her mother’s Avoe. For months the 
daughter Avas her main prop and comfort and attend- 
ant. Will, her bright, brave boy, could not be 
permitted to leave his studies at the Point. Royle, 
her first-born, Avas an outcast and wanderer she kneAV 
not where. Ellis, her youngest, her one daughter, 
proved to be her chief dependence. Loving friends 
and relatives she had in plenty, to be sure, and, 
through the providence of her soldier husband, her 


FORT FRAYNE. 


55 


fortune was unimpaired, and, fortunately, more than 
sufficient for her needs. And so, for over ^six 
months after that fatal Christmastide, the widow 
lay either apathetic or in the depths of an over- 
whelming grief, and Ellis never left her side. And 
then they went for a summer at the seashore, for 
Ellis herself was drooping, and .then while visiting 
at her own sister’s home Mrs. Farrar began to 
realize how all this time Ellis’s education was being 
neglected, and, despite her protest, the girl was sent 
back to school in New York, where she could be 
within call. This was her one stipulation, for Ellis 
well knew what her mother only faintly suspected — 
that no more sudden shocks could come into the 
gentle sufferer’s life, without danger of ending it at 
once. 

And all this time Jack Ormsby had been so help- 
ful, thoughtful and attentive. It was he who met 
them and escorted them, most of that miserable 
homeward way. For the time being, at least, the 
honored remains of the grand old colonel had been 
laid to rest under the shadow of the flag at the poBt 
he had so well commanded, but in the course of the 
second year they were brought East and buried in 
the beautiful cemetery near his own father’s side, 
and the veterans of a famous regiment bowed their 
heads beside the helmeted regulars from the forts in 
the harbor, and Jack’s company sent a superb floral 
emblem to be laid on the flag-draped coffin of the 
commander by whose side their popular sergeant had 
won his spurs in Indian battle. A famous fellow, 


56 


FOET FEAYNE. 


with all his modesty and good sense, was Jack 
Ormsby in the armory of the Seventh all the year 
that followed his homecoming from the Sioux 
camj)aign, and again and again did his comrades make 
him tell the story of his sensations and experiences 
when he followed Farrar into the heart of that fire- 
spitting village, through that veil of softly falling 
snow. How red it grew in many a place! What 
scenes of carnage were there not after the noble 
colonel fell! Jack’s brain used to turn sick at the 
thought of it sometimes, but still there was the 
exultation of the rescue of those helpless captives, 
those poor women, being dragged away to a fate to 
which torture at the stake were mercy. There was 
the triumph of the overwhelming defeat and punish- 
ment of that great village of, hostiles even when it 
was reinforced, as it soon was, by the return of many 
of the warriors who had been watching and hinder- 
ing the pursuit of the Eleventh. Leale had taken 
command, cool, yet raging over the murder of his 
beloved chief, and while even then seeking to carry 
out Farrar’s injunctions to protect the women and 
children, had dealt vengefully with the warriors who 
had rallied to the attack. Ormsby was through it 
all, and bore himself like a man and a sergeant, even 
of the Seventh, and swore that his Creedmoor train- 
ing had been more than enough to help him empty at 
least two saddles. If he had only had my old Rem- 
ington,” said he, ‘‘instead of a cavalry carbine. Kill 
Eagle himself would have bit the dust, ” for twice he 
drew bead upon that savage chief when the snow 


FORT FRAYISTE. 


57 


clouds lifted late in the afternoon and let the battle- 
field be seen. Great work had the little battalion 
done that day, but all the same were they glad to see 
the coming column of the Eleventh just before the 
red, red sun went down. 

Once, just once, after they had been home about a 
month, Ellis made him tell her something of that 
stirring, fatal day, but soon she shut her ears and 
fied. Ormsby came again. He began coming often 
— so often that that became one reason why it was 
deemed best that Ellis should return to school. Mr. 
Ormsby was a very fine fellow, and all that, said 
Mrs. Farrar’s many relatives, but, really, Ellis is 
still too young, and she might do better, ’ ’ and so 
poor Jack, who was learning to do nothing less than 
worship that exquisite face, so pathetic above the 
deep mourning of her attire, became dismal in his 
turn and found no comfort in anything outside of the 
armory or Wall Street. 

The next summer the Farrars spent at West Point. 
It was Will’s first class camp, and Will was cadet 
captain of the color company, and a capital young 
officer despite a boyish face and manner, and then 
Jack Ormsby, who never before had ‘‘taken much 
stock in West Point ” — the battalion looked so small 
beside the Seventh, and the band was such a 
miserable little affair after Cappa and his superb 
array — Jack not only concluded that he must go up 
there every few days to pick up points on guard and 
sentry duty and things of that kind, but Jack de- 
cided that Kitty, his precious sister, might as well 


58 


FOET FEAYNE. 


go, too, and spend a fortnight, and she did, under 
the wing of a matron from Gotham with daughters 
of her own, and Kitty Ormshy,^only sixteen, and as 
full of vivacity, grace, sprightliness, and winning 
ways as girl could be, pretty as a peach, and 
brimming over with fun, coquetry and sweetness 
combined, played havoc in the corps of cadets, and 
— could anything .have been more fortunate? — the 
victim, most helplessly, hopelessly, utterly gone was 
Cadet Captain Will Farrar. To the contsernation of 
the widowed mother she saw her handsome soldier 
boy led day after day more deeply into the meshes, 
led like a slave, or like the piggy in the nursery 
rhyme with the ring in the end of his nose, by this 
bewitching, imperious, fascinating little creature, 
and there was absolutely no help for it. Any^vhere 
else, almost, she could have whisked her boy under 
her wing, and borne him away beyond range, but 
not at West Point. She had to learn th^ lesson so 
many mothers learn with such bewilderment, often 
with such ill grace, that the boy was no longer hers 
to do with as she would, but Uncle Sam’s, and 
Uncle Sam unfeelingly said stick to your camp duty 
with its drills and parades, roll calls, practical 
engineering, pontooning, and spooning in stolen 
half hours, no matter what the consequence. Mrs. 
Farrar couldn’t carry Will away, and couldn’t order 
Kitty. About all she saw of her boy was drilling 
with the battalion at a distance or dancing with Miss 
Ormsby close at hand, and, on the principle that 
misery loves company, she soon was comforted by a 


FORT FRAYNE. 


59 


fellow sufferer, for just in proportion as the mother 
heart was troubled by the sight of her boy’s infatu- 
ation for this pretty child, so was Jack Ormsby 
made miserable by seeing the attentions lavished by 
officers and cadets alike on Ellis Farrar. 

And yet the little blind god was doing Jack far 
better work than he ever dared to dream. The mother 
longed for Will and no one else could quite take his 
place. The lover longed for Ellis, and what earthly 
chance has a ‘‘cit” lover at West Point, even 
though he be a swell and a sergeant in the Seventh? 
It resulted that in the hours when the mother and 
Jack had to sit and look on they were brought con- 
stantly together, and then in these hours of com- 
panionship Mrs. Farrar began to see more and more 
how manful, honest, self-reliant was the gallant 
fellow who had fought by her husband’s side. Little 
by little she learned to lean upon him, appeal to him, 
defer to him, and to see in him, after all, a man in 
whom she could perhaps confide even so precious a 
trust as her daughter’s heart, and that summer at 
West Point won the mother even if it did not win the 
lady of his love. 

That winter the boys came down to New York, 
half a dozen of Will’s classmates, for Christmas 
leave, and such a day and night of adulation as they 
received! At last did Mrs. Farrar quit her seclusion 
to give a little dinner in their honor, and consent to 
attend, as a looker-on, the dance that night at 
Sherry’s, where Ellis gave Ormsby one blessed waltz 
and Kitty gave Will the mitten. Oh, darts and 


60 


FOET FEAYNE. 


flames and furies, what a turmoil there was over that 
Christmas dance! Will had to go back with his 
classmates in time to report at a certain hour, but he 
told his mother in tragic tone that all was over be- 
tween him and Miss Ormsby, forever — forever — and 
so, perhaps, it might have been had Kitty so minded. 
She had flirted outrageously with Charley Bates, a 
fellow Will Farrar simply couldn’t bear, and, though 
neither would admit that a girl had anything to do 
with it, there was the usual cadet challenge and as 
spirited a midwinter ‘ ‘ mill ’ ’ as ever was seen in 
cadet barracks — a mill” in which Farrar fought 
like a hero and was only knocked out after having 
been knocked down time and again, and then Kitty 
was properly punished, for Will was still in hospital 
when the New Year’s hop came off, battered and 
bruised and generally miserable, while Bates, though 
mouse- colored as to his eyes, was able to attend, but 
Kitty went up to Craney’s with Mrs. Farrar, a 
penitent indeed, and never went near the hop, but 
had Will in ecstasy and a dark corner of the parlor 
for a long, long hour, and cried and cooed over and 
comforted him and surrendered at discretion. Will 
Farrar was practically an engaged man when he was 
graduated in June — and only twenty-one. 

All that winter Ellis had continued her course at 
school, but was to come out in May, and during the 
long months from September she was comforted in the 
comfort her mother found in the companion that 
had been chosen for her, a gentle, refined, and evi- 
dently well-bred woman, who came upon the recom- 


FORT FRAYNE. 


61 


mendation of their rector, and who was introduced 
as Mrs. Daunton — Helen Daunton, a woman with a 
sad history, as the grave old pastor frankly told 
them, but through no fault or foible of her own. 
She had been married, but her husband was un- 
worthy of her, had deserted her some years before, 
leaving her to struggle for herself. Dr. Morgan 
vouched for her integrity and that was enough. By 
the time Ellis was to return to her mother’s roof 
Helen Daunton was so thoroughly established there, 
so necessary to her mother, so devoted to her in 
every way, that for the first time in her life, even 
while glad to mark the steps of improvement in the 
beloved invalid’s health and appearance, Ellis Farrar 
felt the pangs of jealousy. 

And this was Will’s graduation summer, and they 
had a lovely time at the seashore. Kitty was there, 
and Kitty was an accepted fact — and more so — now. 
Will would be con^nt nowhere without her, and 
would have married her then and there but for his 
mother’s gentl^|admonition, and Kitty’s positive re- 
fusal. She had been reared from girlhood by a 
doting aunt, had been petted and spoiled at home 
and at school, and yet had not a little fund of shrewd 
good sense in her bewilderingly pretty head. She 
wouldn’t wear an engagment ring, wouldn’t consent 
to call it an engagement. She owned, under 
pressure, that she meant to marry Will some day, 
but not in any hurry, and, therefore, but for one 
thing, the mother’s gentle heart would have been 
content. 


62 


FORT FRAYNE. 


And that one thing was that Will had applied for 
and would hear of no other regiment in all the army 
than that at the head of which his father had died — 
the Twelfth Cavalry, and no one could understand, 
and Mrs. Farrar couldn’t explain, how it was — why 
it was that that of all others was the one she had 
vainly hoped he would not choose. He was wild 
with joy and enthusiasm when at last the order came, 
and with beaming eyes and ringing voice he read 
aloud, ‘‘ ‘ Twelfth regiment of cavalry. Cadet Will 
Duncan Farrar, to be second lieutenant, vice Watson, 
promoted. Troop ‘C. ’ Leale’s troop. Queen 
Mother — ^blessed old Malcolm Leale. What more 
could I ask or you ask? What captain in all the line 
can match him? And Kitty’s uncle in command of 
the regiment and post! Just think of it, Madre 
dear, and you’ll all come out and we’ll have grand 
Christmas times at Frayne, and we’ll hang father’s 
picture over the mantel and father’s sword. I’ll 
wire Leale this very minute, and write my respects 
to Fenton. What’s he like, anyway, mother? I 
can’t remember him at all — nor can Kitty.” 

But Mrs. Farrar could not tell. It was years, too, 
since she had seen him, but he was always a faith- 
ful friend of your father, Will, and he wrote me a 
beautiful, beautiful letter when we came away.” 

And so, late in September the boy lieutenant left his 
mother’s arms and, followed by her prayers and tears 
and blessings, was borne away westward to revisit 
scenes that were once familiar as the old barrack walls 
at West Point. Then it required long days of travel 


J'OET FEAYNE. 


63 


over rough mountain roads to reach the railway far 
south of the Medicine Bow. Now the swift express 
train landed him at the station of the frontier town 
that had grown up on the site of the prairie dog village 
he and his pony had often ^ ^stampeded” in the old days. 
Here at the station, come to meet the son of their old 
commander, ignoring the fact that the newcomer was 
but the plebe lieutenant of the Twelfth, were the 
ruddy-faced old colonel and Will’s own troop leader. 
Captain Leale, both heartily, cordially bidding him 
welcome, and commenting not a little on his stalwart 
build and trying hard not to refer to the very downy 
mustache that adorned his boyish lip. And other 
and younger offic&'s were there to welcome the lad to 
his new station, and huge was Will’s comfort when 
he caught sight of Sergeant Stein, the veteran standard- 
bearer of the regiment, and that superbly punctilious 
old soldier straightened up like a Norway pine and 
saluted with rigid precision and hoped the lieutenant 
w^as well and his lady mother and Miss Farrar. 
‘‘There’s nothing, ” thought Will, “like the discipline 
of the old regiment, after all,” as the orderly came 
to ask for the checks for the lieutenant’s baggage, 
and all went well until the luckless moment when the 
colonel and Leale, with some of the elders, turned 
aside to look at a batch of recruits sent by the same 
train, and Farrar, chatting with some of his fellow- 
youngsters, was stowing his bags in the waiting am- 
bulance, and there in the driver Will recognized 
Saddler Donovan’s freckle-faced Mickey, with whom 
he had had many a hunt for rabbits in the old, old 


64 


J'OET? EBAYNE. 


days, and then an unctuous, caressing Irish voice 
fairly blubbered out: ‘ ‘ Hiven save us if it isn’t really 
Masther Will!” and there, corporal’s chevrons on his 
brawny arms, was old Terry Rorke, looking wild to. 
embrace him, and even as Will, half ashamed of his 
own shyness, was shaking hands with this faithful 
old retainer of his father’s household in years gone 
by, the squad of recruits came marching past. The 
third man from the front, heavily bearded, with a 
bloated, ill-groomed face and restlessly glancing 
eyes, gave a quick, furtive look at the new lieutenant 
as he passed, then stumbled and plunged forward 
against his file leader. The squad was thrown into 
momentary disarray. The sergeant, angered at the 
mishap at such a time, strode quickly up to the 
offender and savagely muttered; ‘‘Keep your eyes 
to the front, Graice, and you won’t be stumbling up 
decent men’s backs,” and the little detachment went 
briskly on. 

“I thought I’d seen that man before,^’ said Leale 
an instant later, “and now I know it — and I know 
where.” 


CHAPTER V. 


.k- 

The winter came on early at old Fort Frayne. 
Even as early as mid-October the ice was forming in 
the shallow pools along the Platte, and that eccentric 
stream itself had dwindled away in volume until it 
seemed but the ghost of its former self. Raging 
and unfordable in June, swollen by the melting 
snows of the Colorado peaks and the torrents from the 
Medicine Bow, it spent its strength in the arid heat 
of a long dry summer, and when autumn came was 
mild as a mill stream as far as the eye could reach, 
and fordable in a dozen places within rifle shot of 
the post. Many a time did old Fenton wish it wasn’t. 
Frayne ’s reservation was big and generous, but, un- 
luckily, it never extended across the river. Squatters, 
smugglers and sharpers could not intrude upon its 
guarded limits along the southern shore, and the 
nearest groggery — that inevitable accompaniment of 
the westward march of civilization — was a long two 
miles away down the right bank, but only a pistol 
shot across the stream. 

In his day Farrar had waged war against the rum- 
sellers on the north shore and won, because then 
there were only soldiers and settlers and no lawyers 
— outside the guardhouse — within ninety miles of 
the post. But with the tide of civilization came 
more settlers, and a cattle town, and lawyers in abun- 
dance, and with their coming the question at issue 

65 


66 


FORT FRAYNE. 


became no longer that of abstract right or wrong, 
but how a jury would decide it; and a frontier jury 
always decides in favor of the squatter and against 
the soldier. Fenton strove to take pattern after 
Farrar and very nearly succeeded in landing himself 
in jail, as the outraged vendor went down to Lara- 
mie, hired lawyers there, swore out warrants of 
assault and appealed to his countrymen. The fact 
that no less than four of the Twelfth within six months 
had died with their boots on, victims of the ready 
knives or revolvers of the squatters across the stream, 
had no bearing in the eyes of the law. Fenton had 
warned the divekeeper a dozen times to no purpose, 
but when finally Sergeant Hannifin was set upon and 
murdered there one fine April evening within easy 
range and almost within hearing of his comrades at 
Frayne, Fenton broke loose and said impetuous things, 
which reached the ears of his men, who went and did 
things equally impetuous, to the demolition of the 
‘‘shack” and the destruction of its stock of spirits and 
gambling paraphernalia, and it was proved to the 
satisfaction of the jury that Fenton did not interpose 
to stop the row until it had burned itself and the 
“shack” inside out. The people rallied to the sup- 
port of the saloonkeeper — he, at least, was a man and 
a brother, a voter, and, when he couldn’t lie out of it, 
a taxpayer. The officers at Frayne, on the other 
hand, in the opinion of the citizens of that section of 
Wyoming, were none of the four, and Bunko Jim’s 
new resort across the Platte was a big improvement 
in point of size, though not in stock or sanctity, over 


FORT FRAYNE. 


67 


its predecessor. Jim ran a ferryboat for the benefit 
of customers from the fort. It was forbidden to land 
on the reservation, but did so, nevertheless, when 
the sentry on the bluff couldn’t see, and sometimes, 
it must be owned, when he could. The boat was 
used when the water was high, the fords when it was 
low, and the ice when it was frozen, and it was a 
curious thing in winter to see how quickly the new- 
fallen snow would be seamed with paths leading by 
devious routes from the barracks to the shore and 
then across the ice-bound pools straight to Bunko 
Jim’s. Bowing, as became the soldier of the repub- 
lic, to the supremacy of the civil law, Fenton swal- 
lowed the lesson, though he didn’t the whiskey, but 
Jim had his full share of customers from the fort, 
and the greatest of these, it soon transpired, was the 
big recruit speedily known throughout the command 
as ‘‘Tough Tom” Graice. 

Joining the regiment at the end of September, it 
was less than a month before he was as well, though 
not as favorably, known as the sergeant-major. 
There is more than one way of being 'conspicuous in 
the military service, and Graice had chosen the worst. 
Even the recruits who came with him from the depot, 
the last lot to be shipped from that once-crowded 
garner of “food for powder,” could tell nothing of 
his antecedents, though they were full of gruesome 
details of his doings since enlistment. He was an ex- 
pert at cards and billiards, said they — for they had 
found it out to their sorrow — and a demon when 
aroused by drink. Twice in drunken rage he had 


68 


FORT FEAYNE. 


assaulted comparatively inoffensive men, and only the 
prompt and forcible intervention of comrades had 
prevented murder on the spot, while the traditional 
habit of the soldier of telling no tales had saved him 
from richly merited punishment. Within the month 
of his arrival Graice had made giant strides to noto- 
riety. He was a powerful fellow, with fine command 
of language and an education far superior to that of 
the general run of non-commissioned officers, and it 
was among the younger set of these he first achieved 
a certain standing. Professing to hold himself above 
the private soldier, proving himself an excellent rider 
and an expert in drill with carbine or sabre, he never- 
theless declared it was his first enlistment and gave it 
to be understood that a difficulty with the sheriff, 
who sought to arrest him, had been the means of 
bringing him to the temporary refuge of the ranks. 
For the first few weeks, too, he drank but little, and 
wearing his uniform with the ease and grace of one 
long accustomed to the buttons, and being erect and 
athletic in build, he presented a very creditable ap- 
pearance. The bloated, bloodshot look he wore on 
his arrival, the result of much surreptitious whiskey en 
route^ passed somewhat away and it was only when 
one studied his face that the traces of intemperance, 
added to the sullen brows, and shifting, restless eyes, 
banished the claim to good looks that were at first 
accorded him. From the first, however, the old 
sergeants and such veterans among the corporals as 
Terry Rorke, looked askance at Trooper Graice. 
‘‘ Another guardhouse lawyer,” said the first sergeant 


FORT FRAYNS. 


of Leale’s troop, as he disgustedly received the ad- 
jutant’s notification of Graice’s assignment. ‘‘Another 
wan of thim jail birds like Mr. American Blood, the 
newspaper pet,” said Rorke, in high disdain. “ We’ll 
have a circus with him, too, as they had in the 
Eleventh, or I’m a Jew. Where have I seen that 
sweet mug of him before?” he added, reflectively, 
as he watched the new-comer surlily scrubbing at his 
kit, and the new-comer, glancing sideways at the 
Irish corporal, seemed to read his thoughts, although 
too far away to hear his muttered words. It was 
plain to every man in “ C” troop that there was apt to 
be no love lost between Terence Rorke and “Tommy 
the Tough.” 

And there was another still who wore the simple 
dress of a private soldier, whose eyes, black, piercing 
and full of expression, were constantly following that 
new recruit, and that was the Sioux Indian, Crow 
Knife, a youth barely nineteen years of age. He had 
been a boy scout before the days of the ghost dance 
craze. A valued and trusted ally of the white soldiers, 
he had borne dispatches up to the very moment when 
Kill Eagle’s mad-brained ultimatum drove his band 
into revolt and launched them on the warpath. With 
them went Crow Knife’s father and mother, and the 
boy rode wildly in pursuit. He was with them, striv- 
ing to induce his mother to abandon the village, when 
the warriors made their descent on the ranches of the 
Dry Fork, and later, when Farrar’s fierce attack burst 
upon them like a thunderbolt through the snow- 
olouds. Sei^iug his mother in bis arms^ the bojr had 


^0 


FORT FRAYNE. 


shielded and saved her when Leale’s vengeful men 
rushed upon the nearest Indians, when unquestion- 
ably, yet unavoidably, some squaws received their 
death wound in the furious fight that followed Far- 
rar’s assassination. Recognized and rescued by his 
former friends. Crow Knife went back to Frayne 
when the brief but bloody campaign was ended, and 
then was sent to the Indian school at Carlisle. Re- 
turning in the course of three years, he had been en- 
listed in what was left of the Indian troop of the 
Twelfth, and was one of the few of his tribe who 
really made a success of soldiering. By the autumn 
of this eventful year Crow Knife’s comrades were 
rapidly being discharged and returning to their 
blankets and lodge life at the reservation, or hanging 
about the squalid cattle town across the river. Crow 
Knife, sticking to his cavalry duty and showing un- 
looked-for devotion to his officers, was regarded by 
the Twelfth as an exceptional case, and was made 
much of accordingly. 

‘^What do you think of that fellow. Crow?” 
asked Corporal Rorke one day as he watched the ex- 
pression in the Indian’s face. ‘‘You don’t like him 
any more than I do. What’s the reason?” 

“There is a saying among my people,” was the 
answer, in the slow, measured tones of one who 
thought in another tongue, ‘ ‘ eyes that cannot meet 
eyes guide hands that strike foul. He-that-stabs-in- 
the-darkis the name we give such as that man.” 

“D’ye know him. Crow?. Did ye never see him?” 
persisted Terry. ‘ ‘ Ever since the day he came the 


FORT FRAYNE. 


1l 


captain has had his eye on him, and so have you, and 
so have I. I can’t ask the captain, but I can you.* 
Where have you seen him before? ” 

But Crow Knife shook his head. ‘‘I cannot re*- 
member his face. It is his back I seem to know. My 
I^eople say that way they see their enemies.” 

And so Rorke could find no satisfactory solution 
of the ever-vexing question. Twice or thrice he 
accosted Graice and strove to draw him into talk, 
but the new-comer seemed to shut up like an oyster 
in the presence of the Irish corporal, a great contrast 
to the joviality he displayed when soliciting com- 
rades to take a hand at cards. The recruits had 
hardly any money left. Graice had won what little 
there was on the way to Frayne, and now he had 
wormed his way into the gambling set that is apt to 
be found in every fort — all comers who have money 
being welcome — and for a, few weeks fortune seemed 
to smile upon the neophyte. He knew, he protested, 
very little of any game, but played for fellowship 
and fun. Then he kept sober when others drank, 
and so won, and then came accusations of foul play 
and a row, and the barracks game was broken up, 
only to be resumed at night in the resort across the 
Platte, and there whiskey was plenty, and so were the 
players, and there Graice began to lapse into intem- 
perate ways, and by the time the long, long nights of 
December came, his reputation as a ‘‘tough” was 
established throughout the garrison. All but three 
or four of the most dissolute members of the com- 
mand had cut loose from him entirely, a matter he 


12 


FORT FRAYNE, 


regretted only because pay day was at hand — the 
soldiers would then have money in plenty for a few 
short, feverish hours. The squatters and settlers 
had none until the soldiers were ‘‘strapped” and so 
Graice and three or four Ishmaelites like unto him- 
self were left to the concentration of brutality to be 
found in one another’s society. 

The winter, as has been said, set in early, and 
when December came duties were few and hours for 
sleep and recreation were many. Time was hanging 
heavily on the hands of those whose brains were 
empty among the households along officers’ row and 
in the quarters of the married soldiers, although Christ- 
mas was not far away. Garrison balls were all the go 
among the rank and file. Hops were frequent 
among the officers and ladies, and, while other 
soldier swains found bliss and enjoyment in the 
society of the half dozen maidens wintering at the 
fort — guests and relatives of some of the officers’ 
families — one inconsolable fellow watched and waited, 
watched and waited, with feverish impatience for 
the coming of a certain train on a certain day, for 
the coming of mother and sister to his own roof, 
revisiting as inmates of the quarters of the junior 
second lieutenant the post where three years gone by 
they occupied the house of the commanding officer. 
But boy lieutenants do not consume with feverish 
longing for the coming of blood relations. Proud 
and glad as was Will Farrar at the idea of welcoming 
the “ queen mother” and sweet sister Ellis to his roof, 
it must be owned that the thrill of his impatienoe 


FORT FRAYNE. 


^3 


vvas all due to the fact that the same train was to 
bring Miss Kitty Ormsby to become for the time 
being an inmate of the army home now presided over 
by loquacious Aunt Lucretia. 

And Will Farrar was not the only man in this big, 
bustling garrison to look forward to this coming with 
strange and sweet emotion. There are natures upon 
which the first strong, fervent love of manhood 
leaves an impress indelible even when the object of 
that love has passed out of one’s life, possibly into 
the keeping 6f another and happier man. Aunt 
Lucretia couldn’t understand why on earth her 
brother, the colonel, should be so fussy and excited 
about Kitty Ormsby ’s coming. Why on earth 
should he insist on sending away to Cheyenne for new 
carpets, curtains, furniture, and all manner of 
contraptions, to say nothing of swell new uniforms 
from New York, all because that precious little chit 
of a niece was coming to spend a month or so at 
Frayne. Lucretia thought it was ridiculous. Of 
course, it was her brother’s own affair. He was a 
well-to-do bachelor, with no one but her to take care 
of, and he could do as he pleased, especially when 
he pleased to insist on surprising her with some 
charming addition to her maidenly store of gowns 
and furbelows and kickshaws. Really, the idea of 
Kitty’s coming and turning everything topsyturvy 
in the household didn’t strike her as being so inap- 
propriate now after all, for Aunt Lou, whom Kitty 
had not seen in years, was still young and volatile 
enough to feel the influence of dress upon one’s 


74 


FORT FRAYNE. 


views of life, and from being actually incensed at the 
initial excitement and preparation, Lucretia first 
grew reconciled, then, as her own remembrances 
came with the early installments of goods and 
chattels, manifestly interested, and later, infected 
with all her brother’s marked enthusiasm, for one 
wonderful day Lucretia almost fainted with excite- 
ment and delight when the colonel came over from 
the ofiice wearing a face of unwonted perplexity and 
dismay, and, when the maiden asked the cause, her 
virgin heart stood still an instant, then fluttered 
wildly at his reply. 

‘‘That blessed old day-dreamer Wayne is ordered 
here for duty. Why! O Lord! yes, I remember.” 

Nearly twenty years before, when she was but a girl 
of nineteen and Wayne a lone subaltern, there had 
been a long winter in which life seemed to have no 
joy for either Wayne or Miss Fenton save in the 
hours spent in each other’s society. Every one at 
Leavenworth vowed they must be engaged. Indeed, 
Lucretia believed it must come any day, but the 
days dragged on, Wayne came ever, but the fateful 
words" were never spoken up to the moment when he 
was ruthlessly hurried away to bear his part on a 
frontier campaign, and rarely, and then only for a 
moment or two, had they ever met again. Wayne 
was one of the wonders of the army, the best fellow 
that ever lived in almost every way, said almost 
everyone who knew him, and yet at once a trial and 
a delight. Without exception, he was the most 
absent-minded, dreamy man in all the service and 


FORT FRAYNE. 


15 

the stories of his absurdities were innumerable. It 
was Wayne who asked Miss Sanford to the german 
at Leavenworth and was found playing whist at the 
general’s at ten o’clock. It was Wayne who kept 
dinner waiting for his arrival at the same general’s 
two evenings later and *was found by the orderly on 
his way to town to call at the rector’s. It was 
Wayne who appeared at a garrison hop one evening in 
cavalry trousers and a black ^‘claw-hammer.” Wayne 
who imjDlored his brother officers to keep him con- 
stantly reminded that it was Mrs. Burton now and 
not Mrs. Hallet, as he had known her for years, upon 
whom they were about to call, and who, after 
infinite mental labor, had well-nigh finished the 
interview without a break, only to dash it all by 
precipitating himself upon the new possessor of these 
charms and covering him with confusion by saying: 
“Hallet, old boy, hearty congratulations!” It was 
Wayne who immortalized himself at Royle Farrar’s 
christening when, as was the hospitable way of the 
army, the officers and ladies were bidden to the 
ceremony and caudle, by wishing the proud young 
mother “many happy returns.” It was Wayne 
who hung his pince-nez on his finger and was seen 
vainly struggling to set his seal ring on his aquiline 
nose, Wayne who gravely took his post as captain 
commanding battalion parade one evening with his 
helmet wrong side foremost and without his sabre. 
It was Wayne who, as senior officer present, had to 
toast the mother of the bride at a gorgeous wedding 
breakfast on a famous occasion and plumped down in 


16 


FORT FRAYNE. 


this sea expectant of joyous applause only to be con- 
founded by an awful silence, followed an instant 
later by an outburst of irresistible, uncontrollable, 
almost hysterical laughter, led by that blessed matron 
herself, for poor Wayne had wound up his halting, 
stumbling incoherencies with the astounding senti- 
ment, ‘‘And I am sure I can wish the lovely bride 
no future more — more — delightful than that she may 
grow ever more — more beautiful than her beautiful 
mother — and — and — and m-more — more — er — virtu- 
ous.” 

No wonder Fenton, with all his liking for the man, 
felt appalled at the idea of having for second in 
command an officer just as apt to get things in- 
extricably mixed on drill as he was in daily life. 
No one could ever count on Wayne’s getting a thing 
straight. He was absurdity itself, as has been said, 
and yet so penitent, so distressed when any one be- 
came involved through his propensities as actually 
to win the affection of his very victims. He was 
the soul of truth and honor and knightly bravery. He 
woke up under fire to an enthusiasm that was grand. 
He was generous, tolerant, kind as kind could be, 
and, but for this one trait, as reliable and thorough a 
friend as man could ask. But what could a woman 
do with a lover like that? And, all of a sudden. 
Colonel Fenton had recalled the almost forgotten 
episode of Lou’s early romance, and wondered what 
new complication might not now arise. Verily, 
it promised lively developments for old Fort 
Frayne, did this bright ^nd bracing Peoe?]ftber, 


J’ORT FRAYNS. 


11 

for, full a fortnight before the sacred anniversary, 
the Farrars were to arrive — the Farrars, with the 
gentle invalid’s now devoted and inseparable com- 
panion, Helen Daunton, and bachelor Will had 
turned his whole little house into a bower for the 
women folks, while he, as he expressed it, took a 
bunk in Billy’s camp ” next door. And Kitty was 
to journey with them, and Will was to have leave to 
go as far east as Omaha to meet them, for they were 
to travel to that point unescorted. Jack Ormsby, 
whom Will had looked upon as certain to be on 
hand, being still abroad, and probably no one but 
Ellis knew why. At the very time when, no longer 
an employe now, but his own master and a suc- 
cessful, driving, thriving business man. Jack Ormsby 
thought he had some chance of being looked upon as 
a suitable suitor, at least from the point of view of 
worldly goods, he found the lady of his devoted 
love nervous, embarrassed, and anything but kind. 
Ever since her father’s death she had seemed to like 
him well. She had spoken to him of the prospect 
of his being with them when they went to the sea- 
shore the summer of Will’s graduation, and he had 
intended to go and join them when they returned 
from the mountains, where they spent July, but first 
there was the week of camp with his beloved 
Seventh, and then, just as he was hoping to run 
down the Jersey shore for a lovely Sunday by her 
side, there came a summons to arms, and every man of 
Jack’s company answered the call, and the Seventh, 
in fuller ranks even than it appeared in camp, went 


78 


I’OET FRAYNE. 


striding away to face the thugs and toughs and 
rioters of greater Gotham, and there was a week of 
trying, exasperating duty, and then a fortnight of 
invalidism as a result; for Sergeant Ormsby got an 
ugly gash as his share of the casualties from brick- 
bats, and erysipelas set in. Not until late Septem- 
ber did he see Ellis again, just after Will had gone, 
and then his doctor advised a sea voyage, for he 
could not understand his patient’s unfavorable symp- 
toms, and then followed a short sojourn abroad. 
Wounded sorely in his honest heart, Ormsby went, 
and when he returned to Gotham the Farrars were 
gone to Frayne. 


CHAPTER VI. 


For several days Trooper Graice had been in the 
guardhouse. Absent from check roll call, from his 
quarters over night, and from reveille, he had 
turned up at sick call with a battered visage and 
all the ear-marks of a drunken row. He had been 
hauled up before a summary court. Major Wayne’s 
first duty after reporting at the post, and received 
sentence of fine with a scowling face and no word of 
plea for clemency or promise of betterment. What 
cared he for fines? He could win more in a night 
than they could stop in a month. He was out again 
doing penance with the police cart about the post 
the day the available transportation came driving 
back from the railway with a load of precious freight, 
and Trooper Graice, splitting wood in the major’s 
back yard, dropped the axe with a savage oath and 
turned a sickly yellow for one minute when he heard 
the busy tongues of the domestics next door pro- 
claiming the arrival of Lieutenant Farrar’s mother and 
sister. The sentry on duty over prisoners bade him 
stop his swearing and get to work again, for Captain 
Leale was passing rapidly up the walk in front, and 
Leale was a man whose eyes were ever about him and 
whose ears seemed never to lose a sound, but the 
captain merely glanced keenly at the soldier with his 
brace of malcontents and hurried on. It was he who 
opened the door of the stanch Concord and assisted 


80 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the ladies to alight — Mrs. Farrar, Ellis, and a 
stranger, a gentlewoman, evidently, yet one who 
seemed to shrink from accepting aid or attention, 
and whose beautiful blue eyes ever followed Mrs. 
Farrar. “My friend, Mrs. Daunton, my older 
friend. Captain Leale, of whom you have heard so 
much,” were the words in which these two were 
made known to each other, while Will and the 
servants were tumbling out bags and rugs and wraps, 
even as another and similar vehicle was being un- 
loaded in front of the colonel’s. Leale dined en 
famille at the Farrar’s that evening, Will proudly 
presiding, as became the head of the house and the 
foot of the table, and beaming upon his mother, who 
sat facing him and rejoicing in his happiness. Very 
bright and cozy were the prettily-furnished quarters, 
for, with boundless enthusiasm, the ladies of the 
garrison had aided the young gentleman in making 
them attractive against the coming of the wife of 
their honored old colonel and his fair daughter, and 
right after dinner the visitors began to arrive, wel- 
coming, army fashion, the old friends long endeared 
to all the other members of the garrison, men and 
women both; and, while Mrs. Farrar and Ellis had 
hosts of questions to ask and answer, Captain Leale 
found himself interested in entertaining the stranger, 
to whom all this blithe and cheery intercourse, all 
the cordial, hospitable, homelike army ways, were 
so odd and new. It was tattoo when he rose to 
leave, and met poor Will without — Will, who had 
twice gone up to Fenton’s hoping to steal a word 


FORT FRAYNE. 


81 


or two with Kitty, only to find that such portion of 
post society as was not gathered about his mother 
and sister was congregated at the colonel’s — and 
then, fatigued by the journey, and showing plainly 
the effect of the excitement of her arrival, Mrs. 
Farrar was induced to seek her room, while Ellis re- 
mained in the parlor to chat with others still coming 
in to bid them welcome home, and not until long 
after ten were the lights turned down in No. 5, and 
not until even later did they gleam no longer from 
the big house on the edge of the bluff. 

Whatever trepidation her friend had felt as to the 
effect of this return upon Mrs. Farrar, it was soon 
evident that it was groundless. Even the day on 
which she returned Lucretia’s call and was received 
in the familiar rooms, once her own, she controlled 
admirably every sign of deep emotion. She seemed 
happy in being with Will, her idolized boy, and was 
never tired of watching him as he strode or rode 
away upon his various duties. An admirable soldier 
was Will, as all the officers admitted, devoted to 
his duties, full of snap, spirit, and enthusiasm, a 
fine drill instructor, and teacher of the non-com- 
missioned officers’ school, yet ever handicapped by 
that exuberant boyishness and by the fact that to 
save their souls the old soldiers and their families 
seemed to find it absolutely impossible at first to for- 
get him as Masther Will.” Many of the old ser- 
geants and their wives had come to pay their re- 
spects to Mrs. Farrar, and to talk, as she loved to hear 
them talk, of the colonel they loved so well and 


82 


FOET FEAYNE. 


mourned so loyally. One and all they rejoiced in say- 
ing everything that soldier speech could frame in praise 
of their new lieutenant, their boy officer, their colonel’s 
soldierly son, even while struggling against the im- 
pulse that ever possessed them to refer to him as 
Masther Will, or, as he hated still more to be called 
Master Willie. Little by little the army punctilio 
had prevailed, and most of the men had learned to 
refer to him respectfully as ‘‘ the lieutenant,” and 
to brace up and salute him with all the gravity and 
precision lavished on Fenton or Leale. Even the 
Irish trumpeter, with whom he had ridden races and 
played hookey, and gotten into all manner of mis- 
chief about the post in by-gone days — McQuirk, at 
first could ndt suppress the affable grin that over- 
spread his freckled ‘‘ mug ” at sight of his whilom 
playmate as a full-fledged officer, bearing the presi- 
dent’s commission. But Mac was savagely roasted 
by Sergeant Stein and other elders, and did his best to 
amend. It was Terry Rorke that was incorrigible. 
Time and again he broke the rules he laid down for 
himself, and, as Terry had been the household 
striker ” in the days when it was Captain Farrar, 
and they first lived at Frayne, he found especial 
favor in the gentle eyes of the widowed mother, and 
was encouraged to come and see her, for in all that 
crowded garrison he alone could recall her first-born, 
her handsome, daring, dashing Royle, when he was 
a boy of fourteen. To all the world he was an out- 
cast, but the mother’s heart had never yet been able 
to quench the flame of love that, burning like a 


FOUT FEAYNE. 


83 


beacon in her pure and prayerful heart, seemed ever 
beckoning to him to return. Yes, Terry Rorke had 
never forgotten Masther Royle,” and he alone 
could come and talk with her of the son, when all 
the rest of the world would only too gladly believe 
him dead and forgotten. 

Thrice had Will, bustling into the hallway, as was 
his custom, without knock or ring, come suddenly 
upon his mother in conference with his old friend 
and hers, and Rorke had sprung to attention and 
stood like a statue and had striven to say ‘‘the lieu- 
tenant,” and not “Masther Will,” in his reference to 
his officer, but Will plainly showed he thought this 
frequent coming an imposition. “Mother, dear,” 
said he one day, “if old Rorke is annoying you by 
coming so often, I can give him a gentle hint.” 

“Annoying? Why, Willy, dear, I love to talk 
with him. He was the most faithful, devoted creat- 
ure we ever knew. All through your boyhood he 
watched over you, and he was almost the only friend 
your poor brother seemed to have.” 

“I appreciate all that, mother,” said Will, tug- 
ging uneasily at his budding mustache, ‘ ‘ at least, I 
try to, but all the same, you know, it isn’t the thing. 
Of course, Rorke never presumes exactly, I under- 
stand that, and he only comes because you bid him, 
and then it is only to the back door and all that, but 
still it’s the effect of the thing on the other men, and 
it’s time he was learning to understand I’m decidedly 
no longer Master Will.” 


84 


FORT FRAYNE. 


Ah! there was the rub. Two days before in the 
presence of Will’s fair little lady love, had one of 
Rorke’s lapses occurred, and the lieutenant had been 
Masther Willed and had reddened to the roots of his 
hair, seeing which, Kitty Ormsby, as determined a 
tease as ever lived, had taken to calling him ‘ ‘ Mas- 
ther Will” on her own account, and thunderstorms 
were imminent. There were other fellows, present- 
able fellows, in the garrison who were quick to feel 
the fascination of this charming little niece of Fen- 
ton’s, and just the moment Will showed a disposi- 
tion to sulk she showered smiles and sunshine on 
the first subaltern to appear, and thereby drove Will 
nearly rabid. Had his comrades ventured to dub 
him ‘‘Masther Will” there would have been a row. 
Had any of the other belles of the garrison so trans- 
gressed he would have turned his back upon her then 
and there, and so elegant a dancer and reputably 
wealthy a young officer was not to be offended, even 
before Kitty came. But Kit could and did torment 
him without mercy, and without fear of consequences, 
and, before she had been at Frayne a week, was mak- 
ing life a burden for the fellow who had prayed for 
her coming as its sweetest blessing. 

And so, like the big outside world, the little com- 
munity of Fort Frayne was living its life of hopes 
and fears, smiles aud tears, love and jealousy and 
hate, while Kitty had speedily made herself com- 
pletely at home, and was tyrannizing over everybody 
at the colonel’s as well as over Will, and tormenting 
Aunt Lucretia by making eyes at Major Wayne, who 


FORT FRAYNE. 


85 


never saw them, while Wayne had got to drifting 
over to his new colonel’s almost every evening, just 
as twenty years before he infested the quarters of his 
old friend at Leavenworth, arousing once more all the 
fluttering of that maidenly heart, and, while Mrs. 
Farrar, rejoicing in the evidences of love and rever- 
ence in which her husband’s name was held on every 
side, and in the honors Will was winning in his 
chosen profession, and even while she found comfort 
in the fact that one faithful old friend could recall 
her wayward boy as he was before dishonor and dis- 
grace had swamped him, she would have been less 
than a woman had she been insensible to Fenton’s 
repressed but unvarying devotion. Never intruding, 
rarely calling, he was gentleness, tenderness personi- 
fied in ever}' look and w'ord. It was evident that all 
these years had never served to banish her image 
from his heart. Mourner though she may be, can 
woman live and not rejoice in knowing herself the 
object of so much love on every side? Widowed 
though even by a few brief months, does she resent 
it that the man lives who would be glad to teach her 
to forget? Life was not without romance, then,even 
to one who had lost her best beloved not three years 
gone by, and for whose first born she still shed bit- 
ter tears. 

And to another sorrowing heart, to another gentle 
and stricken soul this wintry sojourn on the far 
frontier was bringing strange emotion. Day after 
day had Malcolm Leale been a visitor at the Farrar’s. 
Time after time had he found himself seated in con- 


86 


FORT FRAYXE. 


versation with the woman whose beauty of face had 
thrilled him on the day of her coming, and whose 
sweet, subdued but gracious manner had charmed 
him more and more. First to notice his marked 
preference for Helen Daunton’s society, was Ellis 
Farrar, who noted it with mixed emotions, with an 
interest of which she felt ashamed, and which she 
strove to repress. For months she had been strug- 
gling against herself or rather against some strange 
distemper that was not herself, for the pang of jeal- 
ousy with which the girl had marked her mother’s 
dependence upon Mrs. Daunton when Ellis returned 
from school, had deepened and taken root early that 
graduation summer. Her jealousy had been doubled 
by an event that occurred shortly after her brother’s 
last parade. Mrs. Daunton had not gone with them 
to the Point, — Craney’s was crowded in June, and 
Mrs. Farrar and Ellis would go nowhere else. For 
the week they would be there the services and admin- 
istrations of a companion might, perhaps, be dis- 
j)ensed with, and Helen remained at the home. But 
the evening after graduation, when they were all 
seated in the parlor of their New York home, and 
Will was lounging at the window, delighted with 
the life and bustle of the city streets, and vaguely 
longing to get out and air his new “cits,” yet not 
quite daring to go to Kitty’s in them, because she 
declared she’d never speak to him except in uni- 
form, and Mrs. Farrar was leaning back in her easy 
chair, fanning herself slowly; with her eyes and 
thoughts on her boy, even though Helen Daunton 


FOET FEAYNE. 


87 


was reading aloud to her a long, interesting letter, 
there came a shout from Will that brought the blood 
to Ellis’s face and drove it instantly from Helen 
Daunton’s. Confronting each other as they sat, each 
saw and marked unerringly the effect upon the other 
of Will’s jubilant announcement. 

‘ ‘ Here’s Jack Ormsby ! ” 

Helen made her escape from the room that night 
before he entered, had never been in the parlor on 
the occasion of his brief visits thereafter, yet had 
seen him. Ellis never forgot how the evening of his 
last call, when his card came up to her she remem- 
bered that Mrs. Daunton was searching at that mo- 
ment for a book in the library back of the parlor. 
She noted that Helen did not come at once away, as 
had been her wont. She lingered a few minutes over 
the last touches to her toilet, for, even though she 
was distrustful, jealous of her lover, she was woman 
enough to loose no chain that bound him. Her heart 
was fluttering and her face was pale as she stepped 
into her mother’s room and stooped to kiss her fore- 
head, and Mrs. Farrar looked at her wistfully, as 
though half ready to plead for the honest fellow she 
had grown to trust and honor. From Mrs. Daunton 
Ellis had wrung the admission that some years ago 
she had met and knovm Mr. Ormsby. From Jack 
Ormsby she had learned that he had never known 
a Mrs. Daunton in his life, and her heart was fllled 
with misgivings as she went swiftly doAvn the stairs, 
turned sharply at the bottom and in an instant stood 
at the library door. Just as she expected, there, 


88 


FOET FEAYNE. 


peeping through the heavy meshes of the portieres, in- 
visible to any one in the parlor, yet able' to study its 
occupants at will; there, clutching the silken folds 
in her beautiful white hands, with her face pallid 
and quivering with emotion, with great tears trick- 
ling down her cheeks, there, deaf to her coming, 
stood Helen Daunton, gazing spellbound at the man 
who had dared to approach her — Ellis Farrar — in the 
guise of a lover. 

And Jack Ormsby had vowed that never until he 
met her had he known what it was to love a woman, 
vowed that his heart had been all her own ever since 
the winter of her father’s death, ever since the bitter 
day he had to break to her the dreadful news, and 
yet, here before her eyes, was evidence that this 
woman could look upon him only in uncontrollable 
emotion. What folly to talk to her of never having 
seen Helen Daunton before! And even then an idea 
flashed upon her.. Under some other name he must 
have known her, and, though he might deny the 
name he could not deny the woman. Jealous, doubly 
jealous, she sought to bring them face to face, and, 
entering the library, quickly turned on the electric 
light, and would have opened the portiere and bade 
him come to her there, but Helen Daunton turned 
and fled. All Ellis could afterwards extort from her 
was that in her unhappy past Jack Ormsby had be- 
friended her — stood by her in the sorest need, and 
she would be grateful to him to her dying day. 

“And yet,” said Ellis, ever doubtful and suspi- 
cious, “you refused to see him, you shrank from him, 


FOET FEAYNE. 


89 


and you would not meet him.” But to this there was 
no reply. 

That night was Ormsby’s last call before he went 
abroad. And now, with Christmas near at hand, and 
her jealousy ever wrestling with her better nature, 
and the respect, even the regard she felt growing 
within her for this lovely woman who was so devoted 
to her mother, Ellis Farrar knew not what to think 
or say when she noticed the unerring signs of Malcolm 
Leale’s growing love and of the evident pleasure, 
despite all her gentle reserve, the woman felt in his 
society. 

Even to Helen then the coming Christmastide was 
bringing that which women prize and welcome. Only 
Ellis in all the busy garrison found no comfort in 
the happy season, for the lover she longed and 
longed to see was by her own act banished from her 
life. 

Day after day, as December wore on, and she noted 
the faint color that had come back to her mother’s 
face, and even at this altitude, so far up toward the 
heights of the Rockies, her mother’s heart gave no 
symptoms of distress, Ellis grew thankful for their 
coming, even when she heard that Ormsby had at 
last returned and was again in New York. Day by 
day, as she watched Mrs. Daunton, all her old fears 
and fancies seemed shamed to silence, — so gentle, 86 
pure hearted, so full of grace and loving kindness 
she seemed. Sometimes it was even on Ellis’s lips to 
speak an impetuous appeal, to throw herself on 
Helen’s mercy, proclaim the injustice, the cruelty of 


90 


FORT FRAYNE. 


her jealousy and her suspicions, hut to implore her 
to tell the whole truth. They who watched soon saw 
that even in proportion as Mrs. Farrar grew in glad- 
ness and health and new lease of life from her com- 
ing to Frayne, it was Ellis who was drooping day by 
day. Yet, proud and plucky, and determined, the 
girl bore up against her sorrow, redoubled her devo- 
tion to her mother, strove hard to interest herself in 
Will’s friends, was attention itself to Will’s impe- 
rious sweetheart, who little dreamed what thought of 
brother Jack was really in that hidden heart, and was 
making heroic efforts to believe that all would yet 
come right, and perhaps Jack, too, when there came 
an odd adventure and renewed jealousy and dismay. 

Only four days more to Christmas eve! All prep- 
arations were being made for a genuine old-fashioned 
Christmas ball for the officers and their families, and 
a Christmas gathering for the rank and file. The big 
assembly room of the post, over across the parade, 
near the old log guardhouse, was to be the scene of 
both. In loving memory of her husband, Mrs. Farrar 
had had a large portrait painted in New York which, 
beautifully framed, was to be hung in the assembly 
room and presented as a Christmas gift. Already 
detachments had been out in the Medicine Bow coun- 
try, bringing in huge loads of evergreens and pines, 
and the men were hard at work with the decorations. 
Terry Rorke was in his glory, for, as major domo of 
the Farrars long years before, he had never let 
the year go by without rigging up the Christmas 
trees and the bright festoons of green. Even Crow 


FORT FRAYNE. 


91 


Knife, heathen though he was from Terry’s Catholic 
point of view, seemed glad to take a hand, and the 
sounds of bustle and preparation were so like those 
that rang throughout the fort three years before that 
people feared the thoughts inspired by the sounds 
might only serve to sadden Mrs. Farrar. But, on the 
contrary, she seemed full of sweet and gracious inter- 
est, Ellis, hovering about her constantly, found her 
own fears allayed. Then came a typical December 
evening, clear and sharply cold, with abundant 
snow under foot and a cloudless sky over head. 
The sun had just gone down, after flinging his royal 
robes of red and purple about the distant mountains. 
The gun had answered with its thunderous salute, 
and the flag had come fluttering down. Far away 
up the canon the whistle of the express seemed a 
farewell to Frayne as the train sped swiftly on its 
westward way. They had been out for a brisk walk. 
Will and Kitty, Ellis and Lieutenant Martin, her 
brother’s chum, and several other young people of 
the post. There was good skating down the Platte, 
where the snow had been swept away, and many of the 
little party came back dangling their skates in their 
hands, and the keen air was joyous with laughter 
and merriment as they climbed the bluff under the 
colonel’s piazza, and came in sight of Wayne and 
Miss Lucretia sedately spooning at the gate, and 
far out on the road to the station they caught sight 
of the Concord spinning postward with the mail, and 
Kitty was persuaded to come over a moment to No. 
before dressing for dinner, and there at the gate 


92 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the party had dispersed, Ellis and Kitty entering the 
house, where Will promised to join them in a little 
while, and there Mrs. Farrar had joyously welcomed 
them, and there they were seated, the four,* while 
the servant canie in to light the lamps and draw the 
curtains, and Kitty was chatting like a magpie and 
Ellis, listening with only languid interest, though 
her mother and Mrs. Daunton were full of smiles 
and sympathy when the Concord went bustling up the 
road without, and still the chat went on, for no one 
there was interested in the Eastern mail just then, 
and all of a sudden Will’s voice was heard without, 
joyous, hearty, ringing, “By jove, old fellow! This 
is just too good for anything! Ko-no, come right in, 
right in here — mother’ll be delighted — Kitty’s here 
and Ellis.” And the door opened and two big burly 
men in furs were ushered in, and Kitty gave a 
scream and precipitated herself upon the breast of 
'the foremost and hugged and kissed and cried over 
him a bit, even as he was striving to shake hands 
with Mrs. Farrar, even as his eyes were searching 
for Ellis, even as he was brought face to face with a 
woman who had turned deathly white, who strove 
vainly to squeeze past him to the doorway, who 
bowed her head into her very breast as she sought 
first to avoid, then to hurriedly acknowledge the 
embarrassed, wondering, troubled salutation of the 
new arrival, for at the instant his eyes fell upon 
Helen the voice of Ellis fell upon his ear: “My 
mother’s friend, Mr. Ormsby, Mrs. Daunton.” 

And all he could find words to say was simply her 
name, “Mrs. — Daunton?” 


CHAPTER VII. 


That night Ellis Farrar was as wakeful as the 
sentries on their snow-bound posts. It was after 
midnight when she returned from progressive whist 
at the doctor’s, and though luck had befriended her 
and kept Ormsby from her side, she had been able 
at times to watch him when chance brought him 
near Helen Daunton. She noted with jealous misery 
the appealing look in Helen’s eyes when once they 
were .for an instant left to themselves. She could 
have sworn she saw a little scrap of paper handed 
Ormsby at that moment and quickly stowed in his 
waistcoat pocket. But the rest of the evening, it was 
Leale who devoted himself to Helen, and Leale who 
escorted her home, and this fact Ellis saw was some- 
thing that seemed to give Ormsby no concern what- 
ever. Had she not been blinded by her suspicions, she 
would have seen that poor Jack had only one real 
source of trouble that n^ht, and that was her own 
determined avoidance of him. 

Wheels within wheels were whirring in the 
garrison, and Ellis Farrar was perplexed and worried 
more than she could say. Even placid, garrulous 
Aunt Lucretia was involved in the recent compli- 
cations, for, within the past three days Major 
Wayne had been, on no less than three occasions, in 
close and confidential talk with Mrs. Farrar — a talk 
that on one occasion had left the gentle invalid in 

93 


94 


FORT FRAYNE. 


tears, and from which she had gone to her room, and 
was found there, on her knees, by Ellis, half an hour 
later. Explanation was denied her at the time. 
‘‘Not now, Ellis, dear,” was the pleading answer. 
‘ ‘ I cannot talk to-night. Later^ — after Christmas — I 
will tell you all about it,” and with this the girl had 
perforce been content. Yet here again she mourned 
because, while refusing to Jell her own daughter the 
reason of her tears and agitation, Mrs. Farrar had 
welcomed Helen to her room and found solace and 
comfort in her society. 

This lovely, placid, moonlit night, as they came 
away from Dr. Gray’s, old Fenton was plainly dis- 
appointed and Lucretia as plainly disturbed, when 
Mrs. Farrar quietly and possessively took the major’s 
arm and led him, rather than leaned upon his 
strength, on the homeward way. Ellis, escorted by 
Mr. Martin — anything to get away from Ormsby 
this night — had hurried homeward and then to her 
room and out of sight, yet noted how long her 
mother detained the dreamy major at the gate, while 
Leale and Helen Daunton conversed in the little 
parlor. There had been a gathering at the Amorys’ 
that same evening, a little dinner as Mrs. 

Amory expressed it, “in honor of those who are 
engaged and those who ought to be,” and pretty 
Nell Willetts, a captain’s daughter, and young Alton, 
of “K” troop, were the first named, and bewitching 
Kitty and Willy Farrar, one couple, at least, in- 
cluded in the second. Mrs. Amory was a charming 
hostess. She was of an old Kentucky family, had 


FOBT FRAYNE. 


95 


wealth and beauty to add to her charms, and had 
been wooed and won by her dashing husband long 
years before, when he was a boy lieutenant doing 
Ku-Klux duty in the distant South. She declared 
Will was a dark-eyed edition of just what her Frank 
was in the early seventies, and that Kitty Ormsby was 
‘‘too like I was twenty yuhs ago fo’ anything,” and 
Mrs. Amory was so loyal a Kentuckian as never to 
forget even the sweet, soft dialect of the blue-grass 
country she so fondly loved. Ellis, to Mrs. Amory ’s 
relief, had begged off the dinner, saying she felt she 
ought not to be away from her mother’s side just 
now, and frankly explaining to Mrs. Amory the 
apprehensions they all felt on that mother’s account, 
especially at this trying time, so near the anniversary 
of the colonel’s death. 

With all the worldly goods with which she had 
endowed her husband twenty years gone by, pretty 
Mrs. Amory couldn’t add to the government allow- 
ance of quarters, and her dining-room would only 
hold ten; so, as Ellis wasn’t especially interested in 
any man at the post, despite the attentions paid her 
by Martin, Jessup, and other available fellows, Mrs. 
Amory wisely decided her to be deeply interested in 
somebody far away, and knew the man the moment 
Ormsby came. So Ormsby and Ellis, as has been 
said, went to whist and came away dissatisfied and 
unhappy, and Will and Kitty went to dinner and a 
dance at Amory’s, and had a thrilling tiff, as a result 
of which she refused to ask him in when he took her 
home, even though Aunt Lucretia, hoping it was 


96 


FOET FEAYNE. 


Wayne, beamed upon them, though it was after 
midnight, from the doorway, and the colonel and 
Brother Jack, looming up through a cloud of cigar 
smoke, shouted to the suffering subaltern to come in. 
Wrathful and stung to the quick by Kitty’s coquetry, 
Farrar tmmed indignantly away and sought his own 
quarters. The lights were still burning in the 
oarlor, and he felt sure Leale and Mrs. Daunton 
were there, and he was too ‘‘miffed” to care to see 
them. A dim light was burning in his mother’s 
room, and he believed her to have retired earlier, 
and so made it an excuse not to go for her good- 
night kiss and blessing. The door opened just as he 
was hurrying by, and Wayne came forth into the 
clear moonlight, and the boy wondered that he 
should be there, instead of at Fenton’s, as usual, but 
he didn’t wish to see or speak with him. He 
slammed the door of his chum’s bachelor den as he 
bolted in, never noticing the bright light in Ellis’s 
window, or dreaming that his sister sat there alone 
in her trouble, while he, with a lover’s selfishness, 
saw nothing beyond his own. She heard his quick, 
impetuous step, however, and peeping through the 
curtains, saw the light pop up in the window 
opposite her own, and readily she divined that Kit 
had been tormenting him again. Verily, the 
Ormsbys seemed to exercise a baleful influence over 
the Farrars, and, with all her admiration for Kitty’s 
better qualities and her remembrance of all Jack’s 
goodness in the past, her heart was hardening against 
them, as it was, in jealous disquiet, against Helen 


^OET FEAYNE. 


97 


Daunton. At that moment she seemed to long for 
the companionship of her brother and wished he had 
come in. She heard her mother’s gentle words 
mingling with Leale’s deep baritone and Helen 
Daunton’s low, soft voice, and again the feeling 
gained ground within her that she, to whom the 
mother clung with such love and dependence in the 
past, was herself in need of advice and sympathy, 
while, that mother was finding * other helpers now. 
Wayne had gone, the servants had retired and still 
the pleasant, friendly chat went on. It was all well 
enough so far as Malcolm Leale was concerned, but 
why should her mother so utterly confide in one of 
whom she knew so little and of whom Ellis was be- 
ginning to suspect so much? Why should Helen 
Daunton be ‘allowed to accept those unmistakable 
attentions from Captain Leale even when her actions 
plainly showed that there had been some mysterious 
tie between her and Jack Ormsby in the past? 

Then, again, came recollections of the note she 
had seen her slip in Ormsby’s hand that night, and, 
longing for somebody, for something, to distract her 
thoughts from her own angry self, she tore aside the 
curtain and peered out on the night. There, not 
fifty feet away, was Will’s window. There, to her 
right, the snow-covered expanse of the parade, ter- 
minated at the far southern side by the black bulk 
of the one-story barracks and the glistening lights of 
the guardhouse tower, where, on the lower fioor, the 
sergeant of the guard and his corporals held their 
sway. Off to the left lay the rolling slopes, all 


98 


fort I'RAYKE. 


white and peaceful in their fleecy mantles and 
glistening in the moonlight, save where seamed by 
pathways leading to the river and disfigured by the 
wooden fences of the back yards. Far across the 
Platte the red lights burned at Bunco Jim’s and 
some unhallowed revelry was going on, for even at 
the distance the black shapes of horses could be 
seen tethered about the ju’emises, and one or two 
more dim dots of pedestrians seemed slowly creeping 
across the stream. The post of the sentry on No. 5, 
at the north end of the garrison began back of the 
colonel’s quarters on the point of the bluff, and con- 
tinued on to the rear of the officers’ quarters at the 
eastern front, where it joined that of No. 6, and 
even as Ellis gazed from her window, she could see 
that the two sentries, approaching each other, were 
apparently having some conference about the 
situation. There was a low fence separating their 
yard from that next door, and the snow was almost 
untrodden. There was no pathway around the 
bachelor den next door, as there was around No. 5. 
Post servants and orderlies thought nothing of 
utilizing the hallways of quarters occupied solely by 
subalterns. The back gate stood open, as she could 
see, and the board walk leading from it to the rear 
door was visible for half its length. That had been 
cleanly swept during the day, and, leading from the 
gate diagonally across the yard through the snow- 
drifts was the track of a man, and right at the rear 
corner of the bachelors’ quarters, half concealed from 
the front and peering eagerly around, evidently 


FORT FRAYNS. 


99 


Studying the windows of the ground floor of the 
house occupied by the ladies of the Farrar family, 
was the man himself — a big, burly, heavily-bearded 
fellow, in the fur cap and rough great-coat of the 
cavalry. 

Even as half alarmed, half annoyed, yet certainly 
fascinated, Ellis hung at the window, she heard the 
party breaking up down stairs, heard Leale wishing 
them a cordial good-night, and closing the door. 
The silent watcher heard that, too, for at the sound 
of the slam, without which few frontier-made doors 
were ever known to shut, the dark figure popped 
back and remained out of sight until Leale’s soldierly 
form had gone striding away down the row. Then 
once more, slowly, cautiously, rt came partially into 
view, steadily scrutinizing those lower windows. 

Ellis was a soldier’s daughter and no coward. She 
was conscious of an impulse to throw open the win- 
dow and challenge the skulker, but even then her 
mother’s slow step was heard ascending the stairs, 
and Helen’s sweet voice, as the latter came on to 
assist her. 

‘‘ Indeed, you need not, Helen,” Ellis heard her 
say. ‘ ‘ I have grown better and stronger with every 
hour, every hour. Even the sadness has been sweet. 
Even the old Scenes have brought new comforts. 
Even the new sorrow has brought relief and peace.” 

‘‘You have not yet told me of that, nor have you 
told Ellis.” 

‘ ‘ She shall know, and so shall you, dear friend, 
to-morrow. To-night I want to kneel — I want to be 


100 


I'OBT PBAYNB* 


alone.” Then Ellis heard her hand seeking the 
knob of the door. Hastily she turned to meet her 
mother at the threshold. 

“You are better, Queen Mother, God be thanked. 
You have looked better every day. Will you — not 
come in, Mrs. Daunton? ” 

“ Thank you, no; not just now. I will go and put 
out the lights and leave you two together for a while. 
I know Mrs. Farrar is pining for a peep at her sol- 
dier boy’s window.” Already Mrs. Farrar was mov- 
ing thither, and Ellis darted eagerly forward. 

“One moment, mother dear,” she cried. “Let 
me draw the curtain — it — it doesn’t work well.” 

And with the words she boldly threw aside the 
heavy curtain, and noisily, ostentatiously raised the 
sash. Just as she believed would be the case, the 
skulker, alarmed, sprang back behind the corner of 
the adjoining house and deep within its shadow. 
Will’s light was still burning brightly, and in her 
clear, silvery voice his sister called his name. “He’ll 
answer in a minute, mother. Don’t come to the win- 
dow yet,” she added. Then again, “Willy, Willy.” 

And, as though answering her call, as though 
watchful, ready, eager to serve, even though unsum- 
moned, another form came suddenly into sight on 
the moonlight walk in front, and a voice she well 
knew hailed from. over the low picket fence: “Will 
has just gone up our way. Miss Farrar. I brought 
him a message a moment ago. Can I be of any serv- 
ice?” And there, of course, was Jack Ormsby. 


FORT FEAYNE. 


101 


Thank you, no,” was the answer, in cold con- 
straint. ‘‘I had no idea he had gone and that you 
were there. Mother merely wished to speak with 
him a moment,” and with that she meant to dismiss 
him, but her mother, pained by her tone of constraint 
and coldness towards one whom she herself so greatly 
liked, came to the window herself. 

‘ ‘ Ellis, you are not even courteous to that honest 
gentleman,” she said, in gentle reproach. ‘‘Mr. 
Ormsby,” she added, in cordial tones, “are you 
going anywhere? Are you busy?” 

“Entirely at your service, Mrs.. Farrar. I found 
myself de trap at the house after the colonel took his 
nightcap and his leave, so I came out for a stroll. 
The major and Aunt Lou are trying tb remember 
where they left off last night, and Kitty, I fancy, is 
bullying the lieutenant.” 

“ Then would you mind coming in one minute? I 
have a little packet that I want Willy to find on his 
dressing table when he comes in.” 

‘ ‘ Mother, ’ ’ pleaded Ellis — almost breathlessly, 
“I— I—” 

“Hush, dear. Mr. Ormsby will be glad, I 
know.” 

And Mr. Ormsby was only too glad. Promptly he 
came to the door. Promptly he was admitted by 
Mrs. Daunton, who stood with palpitating heart at 
the foot of the stairs. 

“Thank you so much,” was Mrs. Farrar’s hail 
from the landing above. “It is in my room and will 
be ready in one minute, if you will kindly step into 
the parlor.” 


102 


FORT FRAYNE. 


And then, as Mrs. Farrar passed on into her room, 
and with no audible word, Mrs. Daunton and Jack 
passed into the parlor, Ellis standing a moment con- 
fused, confounded, irresolute — turned back into her 
own room, and only by a miracle, recovered herself 
in time to prevent the loud slam of the door. Then, 
with heavily beating heart, she stood there in the 
middle of the floor listening for, yet not listening to, 
the sound of voices from below, the cold night air 
blowing in from the open casement unnoticed, even 
the mysterious prowler at the back of the house for 
the moment utterly forgotten. 

And, meantime, turning quickly upon Ormsby,the 
moment she had led him within the parlor below, 
Helen Daunton, in low, trembling, yet determined 
accents, spoke hurriedly: had not hoped for this. 

At best I thought to see you no sooner than to-mor- 
row night. You have read my note?” 

Ormsby bowed coldly. ‘‘Yes, but no words can 
tell you my surprise at seeing you here in this house- 
hold, and as the trusted companion of whom I have 
heard so much. Do they know you are — ” 

“ They know nothing. They have made me wel- 
come, and made life sweet to me again, after it was 
wrecked and ruined by their own flesh and blood. I 
meant — God forgive me — when first I came to them, 
lonely, destitute, that some time they should know, 
but from the first I grew to love her; from the day 
of my reception under her roof my heart went out to 
her as it has done to no other woman since my own 
blessed mother diedj long years ago; aud then, then 


FORT FRAYNE. 


103 


I learned of her precarious health, and I temporized, 
and now I love her as I love no other being on earth, 
and, knowing that she never heard of her son’s mar- 
riage — for she has talked of him occasionally to me 
— I determined never to tell her of that cr of the 
little one murdered by his brutality. I have hid it 
all — all. I hid from you, for you alone knew me 
under the name she bears and loves and honors. O, 
Mr. Ormsby! you were kindness, helpfulness itself 
to me in those bitter days. Can you not see how 
impossible it is for me to tell her now? Can you 
not help me to keep the hateful truth? See, she has 
been gaining here day after day. Don’t let her 
know — don’t make me tell her — perhaps kill her with 
the telling — that I am Royle Farrar’s wife.” 

‘‘Hush,” he whispered, for in her excitement, her 
voice was rising, and he, listening nervously for a 
footfall that he knew and loved and thrilled at the 
sound of, heard Ellis pass rapidly along the narrow 
hall above, as though in answer to her mother’s call. 
“ Hush!” he repeated, “I must think of this. Tell 
me — has Miss Farrar at any time — ^in any way — seen 
that you have known me before?” 

“She has, Mr. Ormsby, and I, with all the deep, 
deep gratitude I feel towards you, I have been unable 
to tell her the truth and explain w^hat I cannot but 
know has made her suspicious of me, has hurt you 
in her estimation. Oh, what shall I do? what shall 
I do?” she cried, wringing her white hands in grief 
unutterable. “Keep my secret, I implore you, just 
twenty-four hours, until this sacred anniversary so 


104 


FORT FRAYNE. 


fatal to, SO dreaded by her, has passed away. Let 
no shock come to her at Christmas. Then if 
need be — ” 

“Hush!” he again warned, for Ellis was almost at 
the doorway. “I must see you to-morrow. Until 
then — ” And then though the sweat was standing 
on his forehead, he turned with such composure as 
he could assume, with yearning and tenderness 
beaming in his frank, handsome face, to meet the 
proud girl whom he loved and in whose avej’ted 
eyes he seemed to read his sentence. Never enter- 
ing the room, but halting short at the doorway, she 
gave one quick glance at the woman, who, turning 
her back upon them, first seemingly busied herself at 
the curtains, and then moved on into the dining- 
room, which opened^ army fashion, from the little 
parlor, and then was lost to sight. 

“Mother desired me to hand you this,Mr.Ormsby,” 
was all that Ellis said, and then coldly turned away. 

“ Ellis! ” he cried in a low, eager, sorrowing tone, 
as he sprang after her. “Ellis — Ellis! ” 

But instantly, with uplifted hand, she turned, 
first as though to confront and warn him back, then 
as though commanding silence. “Hush — listen!” 
she said. ‘ ‘ What is that? ” 

Something like an inarticulate, stifled, moaning 
cry came from the direction of the dining-room, and 
rushing thither, swiftly, noiselessly as he could, 
Ormsby was just in time to see Helen Daunton reel- 
ing back from the window and staggering toward 
the sofa. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


’ Twas the day before Christmas, and Frayne was 
merry with the music of Christmas preparation. Ever 
since reveille the men had been busily at work, and 
while most of them were engaged in the decoration 
of their barracks, messrooms, and the little chapel, 
Terry Rorke, with a good sized squad, was still put- 
ting the finishing touches on the assembly hall. An 
odd thing had happened that morning. No one had 
ever known that fellow^ Graice to offer to do a stroke 
of work of any kind, especially where Rorke had any- 
thing to do with the matter, yet here he came, right 
after reveille, to tell that very man that if it was all 
the same to him, he’d take the place of Higgins, who 
had been put on guard, and would help at the assem- 
bly room. 

‘‘There’s no whiskey to be had there, Graice, if 
that’s what you want — and ye look more’n like it. 
Answer me this now. Where’d ye been whin ye came 
running in at wan o’clock this morning?” 

“On a still hunt. Corporal,” answered Graice, with 
a leer. “It’s to keep away from whiskey this day I’m 
ready to work with you. I’m supernumerary of the 
guard.” 

“You were drinkin’ last night, and you’ve had yer 
eye opener and brain clouder this morning — bad scran 
to ye! There’s an internal revenue tax on the breath 
of you that would make an exciseman jealous. But 
105 


106 


FORT FRAYNE. 


God be good to us! av it’s to kape mischief away 
from the garrison this day, I’ll go you. G’wan now, 
but whist — you’ve no liquor about you, Graice?” 

‘‘Devil a drop outside of my skin. Corporal.” 

“Then kape out of reach of it and out of the way 
of the ladies, lest the sight of yer ugly mug would 
throw them into fits. Gwan!” and Graice went. 
“Was it you, you black-throated devil, that gave 
that sweet lady her fright last night? ” he continued 
reflectively. “There’s no provin’ it beyond the boot 
tracks, and they’d fit worse looking feet than yours — 
it’s the wan mark of the gentleman that’s left to ye. 
Yes, Sergeant, I’ll kape me eye on him,” he contin- 
ued, in response to a suggestion from the senior non- 
commissioned officer of the troop, who came forth 
from the office at the moment. “The captain’s hot 
about that business of last night, an’ like as not 
there’s the blackguard. Now, what on earth does he 
want to be playin’ Peeping Tom about the officers’ 
quarters? ” 

“No good, of course, but we can prove nothing, 
as you say, except that he was out of quarters and 
wasn’t at Bunko Jim’s after eleven o’clock. He was 
here and in bed when I inspected.” 

Very little was known about this episode. Mrs. 
Daunton had quickly revived under the ministration 
of Ellis and Mr. Ormsby, and, half laughing, half 
crying, had declared that just as she reached the 
window, the blind swung slowly back and the moon- 
light fell full on the head and shoulders of a man 
Tv^ith a fur c;ip, black beard, and soldier’s overcoat. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


107 


She could describe no other features. He saw her 
at the same instant. Each recoiled, but in her ex- 
cited, nervous state, it was too much of a shock. 
Ellis, who, at first, had been prone to attribute 
Helen’s prostration to the interview with Ormsby, 
recalled the prowler she herself had seen and could 
not but corroborate Mrs. Daunton’s story. Jack had 
rushed out, only to find boot tracks in the snow and 
an unfastened blind, but no other sign of a man. 
Mrs. Farrar was kept in total ignorance of the affair, 
and only Leale and Will at first were taken into the 
secret, though the captain at once went to consult his 
trusty non-commissioned officers. All the same, 
though Helen laughed at her weakness when morn- 
ing came, she and Ellis, parting for the night with 
but few words, and each feeling conscious of the gulf 
between them, passed a restless and disquieting 
night. 

Just what mischief that fellow Graice was med- 
itating puzzled not a little the honest pate of Terry 
Rorke. For a time the man worked busily, silently, 
lugging bundles of greens into the hall, and bare, 
stripped branches out. Once or twice in answer to 
chaffing remarks of the other men, he had retaliated. 
Once again, colliding with Crow Knife at the door, 
he had muttered an angry curse and bade the redskin 
keep out of* his way unless he coveted trouble. Tho 
Indian’s eyes flashed vengefully, but he spoke no 
word. It was just, after guard mounting that Graice 
had offered his services, when, as supernumerary, he 
really did not have to work at all, and was not prop- 


108 


FORT FRAYNE. 


erly detailable for any such fatigue duty. By ten 
o’clock, however, it was apparent to more than one 
present that he was drinking more liquor, and had it 
concealed, probably, somewhere about the premises 
or in his overcoat. Rorke warned him and got a 
sullen reply. Not a minute after, although strict 
orders had been given against smoking, because of 
the flimsy nature of the structure and the large quan- 
tity of inflammable material scattered about, he pre- 
cipitated an excitement. Right in the entrance of the 
hall a big square box had just been placed by two of 
the men, and Crow Knife was carefully removing the 
lid, when Graice, lurching in from the dressing room 
with a bundle of greens, stumbled against the edge 
of the case, and dropping his burden with a savage 
curse, he drew back his heavily-booted foot as though 
to let drive a furious kick. 

Instantly the Indian interposed. ‘‘Don’t kick!” 
he said. “Hold your hoof there!” shouted Rorke, 
and others of the men joined in their cry of warning. 
Wonderingly he looked about him on the quickly- 
gathered group, swaying a bit unsteadily even now. 

“Why not?” he scowlingly, sullenly, thickly 
asked. “What harm’s there kicking a rattlebox 
that’s almost broken my shin? What’s the matter 
with you fellows, anyhow?” 

“It isn’t the box, you goneril, it’s what’s inside of 
it! That’s Col. Farrar’s picture — God’s praise to him 
for the flnest soldier that iver rode at the head of the 
Twelfth.” 


S'OET FEAYNiJ. 


109 


‘‘That Col. Farrar’s picture?” muttered the man, 
in a strange, half awed, half defiant manner. “Well, 
I swear, that’s — that’s queer.” And then, in some 
odd, nervous abstraction, he whipped out a cigar, 
and the next thing they knew, had lighted it at the 
stove and tossed the fiaming paper among the sweep- 
ings on the floor. Instantly, there was a rush, a 
trampling of feet, and just as Rofke wrathfully had 
collared the stupefied man, Lieut. Farrar burst in up- 
on the scene, stamjDing out the few remaining sparks 
and then turning angrily upon the group. 

“Who dropped that fire? Who, I say?” he re- 
peated, for, in soldier silence, the men had stood to 
attention, but, true to soldier ethics, would tell no 
tales. “Don’t let that happen again, Corporal,” he 
went on sternly. “You know well enough what a 
fire would mean hereabouts with the cannon powder 
stored in the tower yonder. Remember the orders 
— the guardhouse for the first man, fooling with fire. 
Go on with your work.” And then, as the men 
turned silently away and Terry stood there looking 
abashed and troubled at the implied rebuke. Will 
sought to soften the effect. “Why, you’re doing 
great work here. Corporal; the old place is wearing 
Christmas dress and no mistake.” 

“It is"; Masther Will,” said Rorke, delightedly. 

“ Masther Will!” repeated Farrar, indignantly. 
“ On my soul, Rorke, you — ” 

“I beg the lieutenant’s pardon,” said Terry, all 
contrition and soldierly respect. “ But I’ve known 


110 


FOET FEAYNiJ. * 


him such a few weeks as lieutenant and so many and 
many a long year as Masther Will — ” 

‘‘That’ll do, Corporal. Have the picture in its 
place as soon as you can. Mother will be over here 
to look at it.” 

“Yes, Mas — yes, Sor.” 

And again, as Will turned angrily to rebuke the 
poor fellow, there was a gathering of the men at the 
window looking out upon the parade, and something 
was said about a lady slipping on the ice, which 
carried Will away like a shot. Two strides took 
him to the door, and one glance sent him rushing to 
the rescue. It was Miss Ormsby. 

And then, while some of the men went on with 
their work, others seemed to hang about Graice, who 
was oddly fascinated by the box and cast furtive 
glances at it, while Crow Knife, under Rorke’s direc- 
tion, was quietly unpacking it. Again had Graice 
wandered unsteadily over by the stove, and stood 
there, sullenly kicking at it until one of the men 
bade him quit, or he’d start a fire in spite of them. 
“ You’ll have us all in blazes before our time,” were 
the soldier’s words. 

“Kotl. Fire’s my friend,” answered Graice, in 
a surly tone. 

‘ ‘ An’ likely to give you a long and warm welcome 
if you carry to purgatory the spirit you so sweetly 
manifest here. How yer friend?” retorted Rorke. 

“I mean it saved my life a year ago in Mexico. 
I saw a girl once too often for her lover’s good — 
hot-headed cur! He would have it and got it — in 


FOBT FEAYNE. 


Ill 


the heart — anfl I got in quod and our Consul couldn’t 
help me. I am not the kind of citizen the United 
States hinders a foreign Government from sending to 
kingdom come, and I was mighty nigh getting 
there.” 

‘‘And ye didn’t,” said Terry highly interested. 
“ The dishpensations of hiven are past findin’ out.” 

“ Fire’s stood my friend, I say. I had my pipe — 
greasers ain’t the damned martinets you have here — 
and a spark went into the straw. It blazed in an 
instant. There was hell to pay, with the guard and 
greasers and prisoners running every which way. 
The prison had a little tower like that yonder,” said 
he, pointing to the wooden structure above the old 
log guardhouse. ‘ ‘ I saw my chance in the con- 
fusion and ran for it. It was stone and never took 
fire, and I got safely away at night and vamoosed 
the country, and read afterward how the flames had 
devoured the ruffianly murderer Roy — ” and here he 
caught himself, with sudden gulp, seeing Rorke’s 
suspicious eyes upon him.” 

“Eh, Graice, Roy, you were saying.” 

“ Murderer, roisterer, and rascal, Tom Graice,” 
he went on. “ So I’ve nothing to fear from fire.” 

Rorke eyed him long and distrustfully, grunting 
audible comment on the story, to which some of the 
men had listened in absorbed interest, while others 
were busily removing the picture and setting it in 
place upon the wall. Then, as it was fairly hung. 
Crow Knife stepped back across the room, his eyes 
reverently fixed upon the fine, soldierly face. Graice, 


112 


FORT frayot:. 


meantime, after a hurried glance about him, had 
dra\m a flask from his vest pocket, and had lifted it 
to his lips when Rorke grabbed it. 

“I thought so, ye mad-brained gabbler! You’ll 
be di'unk before the day’s half over. Get up and 
look at the picture, man. It’s looking at' you 
straight and stern.” 

Who — who’s looking at me? What damned rot 
are you talking? ” shuddered Graice. 

“ The colonel is, and as if he didn’t relish the 
sight — small blame to him.” 

‘‘ It’s a saying of my people,” said Crow, in his 
slow solemn tone, ‘‘Whom the eyes of the dead 
call must rise and follow.” 

“You croaking — ” hissed Graice, leaping to his 
feet and rushing at the Indian, but Rorke threw 
himself between them. 

“ Play wid fire when ye may, man, but niver wid 
* a tame tiger. Hush, now. Go out this door and 
cool that crazy head of yours. Here come the 
ladies.” 

Instantly the excited group scattered, the men re- 
suming their work as though at no time thought of 
crime or quarrel had entered there, but Rorke’s heart 
was thumping hard as he went to his station. First 
to enter were Captain Leale and Mrs. Daunton, though 
the blithe voices and cheery laughter of the others 
could be heard without. Evidently there was fun 
at Kitty’s expense, and Leale had seized the oppor- 
tunity to draw Helen to one side. They were talk- 
ing earnestly as they entered. 


i’OBT TBAYNE. 


iia 


‘‘It seems providential that Will’s first station 
should bring his mother back to the old home. 
Here and now at least she should be safe from 
all shock, especially with your care to guard her, 
Mrs. Daunton. She said to me only yesterday: 
‘ Helen came to me only a little over a year ago, but 
I think I have needed her for years. She is dear 
to me, almost as my own daughter.’ ” 

“God bless her foi those words,” said Helen, 
deeply moved. ‘ ‘ I came to her as a dependent, but 
she has taught me a new definition of motherhood.” 

“ Motherhood has its sorrowful meaning for Mrs. 
Farrar,” said Leale, gravely, his handsome, dark 
eyes fixed upon her face. “ Has she never spoken 
to you about Royle, her eldest son? ” 

“ She has sometimes mentioned him,” said Helen, 
with great constraint. “ But she can hardly bear to 
speak of him, and I know the bitter sorrow he 
brought to every one who loved him, but,” she 
added, quickly, as though eager to change the sub- 
ject, “how cozy and warm and Christmasy it looks 
and smells! I shall have another new definition — 
what Christmas means. We learn many definitions, 
do we not, as life goes on, and sometimes fate is 
good to us and lets us learn the happiest last.” 

“ And you have learned a sad one of Christmas? ” 
“I? A very sad one. My own baby died in my 
arms on Christmas Eve.” 

Leale bent earnestly towards the sad, sweet face, 
a deep emotion in his own, but at the moment Ellis 
entered followed closely by Ormsby, She bowed in 


114 


FOET FEAYKE. 


evident constraint at sight of the couple already 
there, and looked as though she would gladly have 
turned about again. After her came Will and Kitty, 
and other young people of the post, all eager and 
intent on inspecting the preparations being made, all 
full of compliment to Korke for the success attend- 
ing his labors, all full of admiration of the portrait 
which they grouped about and admired, while Ellis 
hung her father’s sabre underneath. And then once 
again the whole party, chatting merrily, went drift- 
ing out into the crisp air and glorious sunshine, 
leaving glowering after them from the doorway of 
the little room that opened off the main hall the ill- 
favored, ill-liked soldier Graice. 

Two minutes later, and no one could explain how 
It started, or what was its exciting cause, with 
hardly a spoken word or premonitory symptom, two 
men were clinched in furious struggl.e — one heavy, 
burly, powerful, and gifted with almost demoniac 
strength, had hurled the other down. That other, 
lithe, sinewy, panther-like in every motion, writhed 
from underneath his huge antagonist, and had 
sprung to his feet, while the first, more slowly 
heaved himself upward, and then, like a maddened 
bull, dashed at his foe. Springing lightly to one 
side. Crow Knife, for it was he, whipped from its 
sheath a glittering blade, and poised it high in air, 
and Graice, even in his blind fury, saw and hesi- 
tated. There was a rush of the workmen to the 
spot, but Captain Leale was first of all. Clear and 
cold and stern his voice was heard: ‘‘Drop that 


FOET FEAYNE. 


115 


knife! drop that knife, I say! ” and slowly, reluc- 
tantly, though his eyes were blazing with hate and 
rage, the Indian turned towards the man he had 
learned to trust, to honor, and to obey, and the 
knife fell clattering to the floor. Graice made a 
lunge as though to grab it, and Rorke’s ready foot 
tripped and felled him. Then, with both hands, the 
Irishman grabbed him by the collar and dragged 
him, dazed and scowling, to his feet. 

‘‘There are ladies coming, sir,” was the low- 
murmured warning of one of the men. 

“Take that man out and cool him olf,” said Leale, 
still calmly to the corporal. “I’ll hear the story 
later. Quiet now one and all,” he added, as the 
group dispersed. “It is Mrs. Farrar.” 

They met at the very doorway, the fair, radiant 
woman, closely followed by her daughter, the dazed, 
hulking soldier, led or rather driven forth by Corporal 
Rorke, and instantly a change, swift and fearsome, 
shot across the sweet, pathetic face. One glance was 
all, and then, pale as death, she tottered feebly for- 
ward. Ellis sprang to her side in sudden alarm. 
“Mother, dearest, what is wrong? How you 
tremble ! ” 

For a moment she could not speak. “It is folly, 
it is weakness!” she faltered. “But that face — that 
dreadful face! The look in those eyes — the aAvful 
glitter that only liquor kindles. I have not seen 
that look since — Oh, whenever I see it I say, God 
pity, pity his mother.” 


116 


FORT FEAYNE. 


And then Helen Daunton came hastily in and 
helped to lead the agitated woman to a seat, and 
there she knelt beside her and soothed and comforted 
and cooed to her as women croon over a tired child, 
and Leale hovered helpfully about, grave, strong, 
and gentle, and it was on his arm she leaned, with 
Helen at her side, when finally she stood to look at 
her husband’s portrait. And little by little she grew 
calm and the fluttering at her heart ceased to distress 
her, and Ellis, turning reluctantly away at the 
bidding of her garrison friends, left her mother to 
the ministrations of the woman whom with every 
hour, more and more, she learned to look upon as a 
rival; and then, saying that he would call for them 
in a few minutes with his sleigh, believing that a 
short drive in the exhilarating air would be of benefit, 
Leale, too, left them, and Mrs. Farrar and Helen 
Daunton were practically alone. Mess call sounding 
cheerily had called the men to their noonday meal. 

The eyes of the elder woman had followed the tall, 
soldierly form bf Leale as he left the room, and then, 
tenderly, questioningly, almost entreatingly, turned 
upon Helen. 

‘‘I love him almost as I do my own son, Helen. 
My husband died in his arms. Surely you must 
realize that his great heart has belonged to you ever 
since he first set eyes on your bonny face.” 

Mrs. Daunton almost started to her feet. 

‘‘Oh, not that ! Surely, not that ! He is my good, 
true friend,” she cried. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


117 


‘‘Not the less your friend because all your lover, 


Helen.” 


‘‘Oh, never my lover! I have no right — I am not 


free!” 


“Listen to me, Helen,” pleaded her friend. “Shall 
one mistake blight a lifetime? I know your short 
marriage experience was a cruel one.” 

“It was — heaven knows it was,” assented Helen, 
shuddering. 

“Then do not make youth’s mistake, dear,” con 



tinned Mrs. Farrar, “and think the story ended 
because one chapter is closed. I thought my story 
ended when they brought me home my dead soldier. 
I’ve prayed many a time my story might end in the 
years my first-born was an outcast. Helen, I have 
hardly spoken to you of my eldest boy, but I can tell 
you now that, standing here to-night, I realize how 
out of sorrow peace has come to me. Death, which 
took away my husband, gave me back my son.” 

“Death!” cried Helen. “Royle Farrar is not — 
dead? ” 

“Helen, how strangely you speak. He has been 
dead a year, though only recently did they give me 
all the cruel facts. Major Wayne learned them from 
the Consul in Mexico.” 

In uncontrollable agitation Helen Daunton had 
turned away. “Royle Farrar dead!” she gasped. 
“ Then I — Oh, God be thanked! ” 

The tears were blinding Mrs. Farrar, and for a 
moment she saw nothing of Helen’s agitation. The 
bells of Leale’s sleigh came trilling merrily up the 


118 


fort frayne. 


road without. Hastily she dashed away the pearly 
drops, and smiling fondly drew her shrinking friend 
to her embrace. ‘‘Helen, dear, there is a new look 
in your face,” she whispered. 

“It is because I rejoice in my soul that your heart 
is at rest. It is because it is Christmas — Christmas, 
the time of burdens dropped, of old sorrows healed, 
of new births and sweet beginnings. Dear, the 
Christmas chimes are pealing in my heart. It is the 
first real Christmas I have known in years.” And 
so, her arms twining about her friend, she led her 
forth into the radiant day, with all its sunshine 
beaming in her face. One minute only had they 
gone when, crouching from the dressing room at one 
side, his face bloated and distorted, the soldier 
Graice sped swiftly across the floor and stopped to 
peek through the eastern window. Suddenly, back 
he sprang and stood swaying at the door of the 
anteroom, as Helen Daunton hurriedly returned. 
Coming from the dazzling glare of the sun without 
into the dimly-lighted room, she almost collided with 
the hulking figure before seeing it at all. 

“Mrs. Farrar has left her cloak,” she faltered, 
“ will you kindly move from the w^ay? ” 

“You thought I had moved from your way,” was 
the thick, husky answer, “but you’re mistaken, my 
dear.” 

Back she started as though stung, an awful terror 
in her staring eyes, her blanching face. 

“You — Hoyle Farrar — and here!” she gasped. 
^‘You — Royle Farrar — Oh, my gracious GodJ ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Alarmed at Mrs. Daunton’s failure to rejoin them, 
Leale had tossed the reins to his orderly, and, 
leaving Mrs. Farrar seated in the sleigh, hurried into 
the building in search of her. It was a prostrate, 
senseless form he found close to the inner door, and 
only after a deal of trouble did she revive. Greatly 
alarmed, Mrs. Farrar had caused her to be driven 
straight home, and there the doctor came, and Ellis, 
and ministering angels without stint, and questioners 
without number, but meantime, Leale, with wrath- 
ful face, had gone to his troop quarters and sum- 
moned his first sergeant. Graice had not been with 
the men at dinner, was that worthy’s report. He 
was at the post exchange eating sandwiches and 
drinking beer at that moment, and Leale sent for 
him. 

Something had tended to sober the man, for he 
came into the captain’s presence, looking sullen, but 
self-possessed. ‘ ‘ I warned you, after that affray 
with Crow Knife,” said Leale, ‘‘that you were to 
keep out of temptation and mischief until you were 
sober enough to understand what I had to say to 
you. Where were you between dinner call and 
12 : 30 ?” 

“Walking off my heat, sir, as the captain di- 
rected.” 

ltd 


120 


rOET FEATNE. 


Leale stood closely scanning the swollen face of 
the soldier. He was always grave and deliberate in 
dealing with the malcontents of his command, rarely 
speaking in anger and never in a tone indicative of 
irritation. Under. the captain’s calm, steadfast 
scrutiny Graice plainly winced. His bloodshot eyes 
wandered restlessly about and his fingers closed and 
unclosed nervously. 

‘‘You have made but an ill name for yourself 
thus far, my man,” said Leale, “ and this day’s work 
has not added to your credit. What started the 
trouble T^ith Crow Knife? ” 

“ He struck me,” was the surly answer. 

“You have been drinking liquor to-day, Graice, 
and it is said of you throughout the whole troop 
that when drinking you are ugly and ill-tempered. 
I have known Crow Knife a long time and never 
knew him to be in trouble before. You are the first 
man of this command to quarrel with him. Let it 
be the last time. He bears a good name; you have 
made a bad one. Another thing: you were working 
there at the hall this morning under Corporal Rorke. 
What became of you when the other men left and 
went to dinner? ” 

“ I — was thirsty — and went for a drink,” was the 
shifty answer. 

“Went where? You were not then at the post 
exchange.” 

The soldier turned redder, if possible, hitched un- 
easily, the bloodshot eyes still wandering warily 
about, as though eager for any light other than that 


FOKT FEAYNE. 


121 


which burned in the clear, stern gaze of his captain. 
“I went for a drink,” he repeated, “and I’m not 
bound to say where, and so get some one else in 
trouble. I’m not without friends here, even if I 
haven’t them among my officers, and I can be true 
to those who are true to me.” 

“Such talk is buncombe, Graice,” said Leale, 
coolly, “ and you know it. You will do better to 
keep clear of friends who give you liquor. You are 
sober enough to appreciate now what you hear and 
what you say. Keep clear of it, I warn you, or it 
will be your undoing. Are you not for guard? ” 

“I am, sir, and ready to take my turn when 
needed, but I can take no such affront as that red- 
skin slung in my teeth.” 

“Enough on that score! I’ll hear your story to- 
morrow, when you’re both cooled down. Now, go to 
your quarters, and for the rest of this day keep away 
from three things^ — Crow Knife, liquor, and — under- 
stand me — the assembly hall.” 

The sullen eyes glowed with new anger. The 
man had been drinking just enough to be reckless. 
“I’d like to know why I’m not considered fit to 
work, at least,” he muttered. 

“ You are not fit to be seen by the eyes of gently- 
nurtured women, Graice. Your face is bloated, your 
eyes inflamed, your whole carriage tells of the havoc 
liquor plays. You may as well know that the sight 
of you was a shock to our guest Mrs. Farrar, and I 
suspect that you could tell what it was that so 
startled Mrs. Pauiitoii.” 


122 


FORT FRAYNE. 


“ I don’t know any such — ’’began the soldier in 
the same surly tone, but Leale uplifted his hand. 

‘‘The less you say when you’ve been drinking, 
my man, the less you’re likely to fall into further 
trouble. You go no more to the assembly room to- 
day, because I forbid. Do you understand? 

“I’ve got rights to go there — ay, or, where my 
betters cannot go — ” burst in Graice in sudden fury, 
but the instant his eyes met those of his captain the 
words died on his lips, and the red lids drooped. 

“You have said more than enough, sir,” sternly^ 
answered Leale. Then, turning sharply to a little 
knot of non-commissioned officers who, at the barrack 
steps, were curiously watching the scene,- he called, 
“Sergeant Roe!” and a young soldier in natty 
uniform came springing forward, and, halting close 
at hand, stood at the salute. 

“I leave this man in your charge. He is for 
guard, I believe. Set him to work at his kit, and 
see that he is in proper trim — in every way — for to- 
morrow.” 

“He may be needed to-day, sir. He’s super- 
numerary.” 

“Indeed! Worse than I thought, Graice,” said 
Leale, calmly. “You will be wise to take a cool 
bath and a nap then. At all events, see that he does 
not leave the barracks this afternoon, sergeant.” 

“I will, sir. Come on, Graice.” 

And conscious that he had been indeed playing 
with fire, yet raging over the sense of his eu- 


FORT FRAYNE. 


123 


forced submission, the half-drunken fellow turned 
and followed his young superior. 

Meantime there had been anxiety and dismay at 
the Farrars’. Helen had speedily been restored to 
consciousness, only to be overcome by a fit of hyster- 
ical weeping, succeeded by a nervous attack that de- 
fied the efforts of her fondest friends. Mrs. Farrar 
had, of course, sent for the doctor, but Helen in- 
sisted that his presence was utterly unnecessary. She 
begged to be left alone. She declared the attack to 
be no new thing. She had suffered just in the same 
way before, though not for two or three years. She 
seemed eager to rid herself of all attendants. In 
truth, her one longing was to be allowed to think 
uninterruptedly. Even at night this might have been 
diflScult. By day, with sympathetic inquirers com- 
ing every few minutes to her door, and with her 
gentle friend sitting at her bedside, she found it im- 
possible. If she closed her eyes, that leering, half- 
drunken, swollen, triumphant face came to torment 
and distract her. If she opened them, it was only to 
find sweet, anxious features bending over her, full of 
tenderness, sympathy, and unspoken inquiry. Do 
what she could to allay it, Helen Daunton saw plainly 
that Marjorie Farrar more than suspected that there 
was some exciting cause for that sudden prostration. 
In utter helplessness she lay striving to plan, striv- 
ing to see a way out of this new and most appalling 
complication. That the man who had wrecked her 
life should return, as it were, from the grave was in 
itself horrible enough, but that he should reappear 


124 


FOKT FEAYNE. 


in the flesh here, at Frayne, where his presence was 
a menace to the peace of so many who were dear to 
her, and to the very life, perhaps, of the gentle in- 
valid who was nearest of all, was torment indeed. 
For some hours she lay there facing her fate, shut- 
ting out all thought of her newborn hope and joy 
thus summarily blasted, seeing only — thinking only — 
of the peril that involved her friend. The short 
winter day wore on. The spirits of the younger 
members of the social circle seemed undimmed, for, 
as stable call was sounding, she could hear merry 
chat and laughter again in the parlor below stairs. 
Ellis alone seemed to share with her mother the 
anxiety or uneasiness which followed the events of 
the morning. She had refused to join the little party 
that had gone up, as they expressed it, ‘ ‘ to call on 
Kitty.” She had refused partly from a feeling of in- 
disposition to any gayety, partly from a sisterly sym- 
pathy for Will, who, she felt well assured, longed 
for an uninterrupted half hour with his capricious 
lady love, and partly becauses he shrank from appearing 
in the colonel’s parlor, thereby possibly giving Ormsby 
half a reason to think she sought him. Evidently 
the young people had had small mercy on Will. 
Evidently Kitty had lent herself not unwillingly to 
the fun at his expense, for, after biting savagely at 
his finger nails and tugging furiously at his mus- 
tache, the boy had pitched angrily out of the colonel’s 
house and come home for comfort, and thither had 
they followed him, two or three happier couples, and, 
catching him in the parlor, all unconscious of Mrs. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


125 


Daunton’s seclusion aloft, were as bent on coaxing 
him to return with them as he, with assumption of 
lordly indifference, was determined to make it appear 
that he had no such desire or intention. He carried 
his point, too. knew well enough that Kit’s 
complicity in the plot was for the express purpose of 
teasing him. He couldn’t afford to let them see he 
was indignant at her or at them, neither could he af- 
ford to let her see that he was not justly offended. 
And right in the midst of all the babel of protest and 
appeal and laughter the door bell rang, and at the 
head of the stairs, just as stable call was sounding, 
listening ears heard the unctuous, jovial tones of 
Corporal Rorke inquiring for Capt. Leale. 

Then Will’s voice responded, and Will was very 
distant and dignified. “Captain Leale is not here, 
corporal. Have you been to his quarters? ” 

“Sure, I went there furst, sorr, an’ they told me 
he was here, if anywhere. Thin, bedad, he’s no- 
where.” 

“He’s gone down to the stables already, perhaps,” 
said Farrar, “and you’ll find him there. Yonder goes 
the call now.” 

“I know, mast — I know, sorr, but the throuble’s 
right here, sorr. Higgins has been took ill on guard. 
He was right out here on No. 5, sorr, back of the 
quarters, and that spalpeen Graice is supernumerary, 
an’ they’ve sint for him, and the first sergeant’s 
afraid, sorr.” 

“What of?” 


126 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘‘Graice had been drinking this morning. He’s 
sober enough now, sorr, but he’s nervous, wild-like, 
excited, tramping up and down the barrack flure like 
a caged hyena, sorr.” 

“Then tramping up and down the sentry post will 
be just the thing for him. It’ll cool him off. Put 
him on.” 

“Very well, sorr. Just as the loot’nant says. I’ll 
tell the sergeant at once. 

Five minutes later the parlor was deserted and all 
was silence below. Now, at least, Helen Daunton 
could close her eyes and plan and think. He was 
to be placed on guard. He would be on post 
right out here on the bluff. Then what was 
to prevent her slipping out in the dusk of the 
evening when all the others had gone over to the assem- 
bly hall, speaking with him, pleading with him, im- 
ploring him to go away anywhere — anywhere where he 
would not again in drunken mood endanger that poor 
mother’s life by the sudden shock of his presence. 
She would agree to anything, she would follow him, 
slave for him, starve with him, be his wife or his 
handmaid — anything to get him away — far away 
from the sunshine, the smiles, the hopes and joys 
and blessings that had been hers at old Fort Frayne. 
One other plan. She had but little money, and in 
their flight much might be needed. She must obtain 
it, for that drink-sodden wretch would surely have 
none. Go she must and would. Go he must 
and should, for any day, before the whole gar- 
rison — oh, shame unutterable! he might take the 


i’OET FEAYNE. 


127 


notion boldly to throw off all disguise’ and 
claim her as his wife. Possibly with money she 
might bribe him to take kindly to her proposi* 
tion and agree. Then before he could spend what 
she had given him, she could escape, return to the 
East, and somewhere, anywhere hide her head from 
him, from friends, from the world, and all. Home 
she had none. That went when her father died, 
lonely and heartbroken, two years before. 

And in all that garrison to whom could she ap- 
peal — upon whom could she call? One man there 
was who, Avell she knew, would open his hand as he 
had his heart, and its uttermost treasure could be 
hers for the mere asking, and that man of all others, 
was the one who she prayed might never know the 
miserable truth that this was Royle Farrar — that she 
was Royle Farrar’s wife. 

Another there was, generous, helpful and kind, 
who, did he but learn the identity of the man slink- 
ing here under that disguise given by years of drink 
and debauchery, would aid her to his uttermost farth- 
ing, aid her as he had before out of pity and com- 
passion, aid her now with eager hand through 
thought of the shame that would come to the girl he 
loved, the shock that might be in store for her 
beloved mother. There was the man — Jack Ormsby! 
But how to see him — and when and where! Not a 
moment must be lost, because, now that Royle’s 
presence was known to her, his wife, any moment 
might bring on the further catastrophe. She had 
never known him to stop until sodden and stupefied. 


128 


FOBT FRAYNE. 


Drink, drink, drink; in some form he would find 
the poison and gulp it down, waxing crazed and nerv- 
ous if it were withheld from him, turning mad and 
reckless if it were given. Drink he surely would all 
through this blessed Christmas eve, and at any hour, 
any moment on the morrow^ she might expect him to 
appear before them all, in the midst of their joyous 
Christmas gathering, in drunken exultation, demand- 
ing his seat at his wife’s side at his mother’s board. 
What that would mean, to that gentle mother whose 
very life seemed now hanging by a threaa, God alone 
could say. 

And here she lay, hesitant, impotent, cowardly — 
when the lives and happiness of those dearest to her 
were at stake, shrinking even now from an appeal to 
Ormsby, who alone in all the garrison, probably, was 
competent to advise and help, and Ormsby had already 
suffered and suffered much on her account. In the loyal 
observance of his promise he had brought himself 
under the ban of suspicion, and with half an eye 
Helen could see that Ellis looked upon their relation 
with utter distrust. Great heaven! was she to be a 
curse to every one who had been kind to her? The 
thought was intolerable. 

Helen Daunton amazed her friend by springing 
from her bed and throwing up the window sash. 
‘‘Air, air! ” she moaned. “I feel as thoughT were 
suffocating,” and leaning far out into the wintry 
twilight, bathing her aching head in the cold, spark- 
ling air, she gazed wildly northward toward the 
bluff. Aye, muffled in the heavy canvas overcoat, 


J’OET feayk:E. 


129 


the fur cap down about the bloated, bearded face, 
slouching along the sentry post was the form she 
dreaded — hated to see, yet sought with burning eyes. 
As she gazed he saw and stood and leering over the 
intervening drifts of spotless snow, kissed his fur- 
gloved paw and tossed his hand in half defiant, half 
derisive, all insulting salutation. 

‘‘Mrs. Farrar,” she cried, in utter desperation, 
turning madly away from the hateful sight. “I — I 
must get into the open air awhile. You won’t mind, 
dear. I must walk — walk, run, rush in the cold. 
No, don’t come, and pray let Ellis keep with you. 
In ten — twenty minutes at most, I’ll return. ” 

“Ah, Helen, wait until Willy — until Malcolm 
Leale returns from the stables. See, they’re coming 
now. They will walk with you.” 

“Oh, no, no, no! Do you not see? I must be 
alone. I cannot talk with any one. Let me go,” 
she cried. Then before either the mother could 
interpose or Ellis, who came hurrying into the room, 
could urge one word, she had seized a heavy wrap 
and gone almost bounding down the stairs. 

At the threshold she recoiled, for there, his hon- 
est face full of eagerness as the door flew open, stood 
Jack Ormsby. “I — I was just* about to ring,” he 
faltered, “and inquire after you — and for — Miss 
Farrar. You really startled me.” 

And up aloft they heard — Ellis heard — the eager, 
low-toned, almost breathless answer. “Oh, Mr. 
Ormsby. It was you I sought. Come — ^right in 
here.” 


130 


FOBT FKAYNE. 


And drawing him into the parlor she closed the 
door, reckless now of anything Ellis might suspect, 
thinking only of the peril that menaced one and all. 
Perhaps Jack Ormshy’s longing eyes caught one fleet- 
ing glimpse of feminine drapery at the head of 
the little staircase. Perhaps his own wrongs and 
woes had overmastered him. Perhaps he thought 
that already he had been too heavily involved, all on 
account of this fair sufferer and suppliant, but certain 
it is he followed hesitant, and that it was with a far 
from reassuring face he confronted his captor. 

‘‘Mr. Ormsby,” she burst forth. “How much 
money would you give, at once, this day, to rid this 
post of the greatest shame and misery that could 
be brought upon Ellis and her mother?” 

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” was the uncer- 
tain reply. 

“I mean that Royle Farrar is here — in this garri- 
son — a private soldier in Capt. Leale’s troop.” 

“Mrs. Daunton! Are you mad?” 

“ Mad? My heaven, I well might be! He came 
before me this noon, with her, with his mother, not 
twenty steps away, and taunted me and threatened 
them. Oh, God, he means it — he means to make 
himself known to them and claim their kinship in 
the way to shame them most, and the shock will kill 
her, kill her! There is only one earthly way. He 
will go for money.” 

“He can’t, if he’s a soldier. It’s desertion. It’s 
— why, they follow them, capture them and it means 
state prison or something for years.” 


I'OET FRAYNS!. 


131 


I know nothing of that — I know I’m only a help- 
less, distracted woman, but drink and money are the 
two things he worships. For them he will risk any- 
thing. I can see him this night. He is this moment 
on post, out here on the bluff. You know him. 
It’s the man they call Tom Graice.” 

Ormsby’s hat fell from his hand. ‘‘My heaven! 
That man here again? ” 

‘ ‘ Here, here, and I have known it only for a few 
hours. See what I am suffering. Do you not see 
what it means if Royle Farrar makes himself known? 
— and he is capable of anything. Shame to Will, 
shame to Ellis, heartbreak — death perhaps — to Mrs. 
Farrar. Do you not see you must help me get him 
away from here? You must for all their sakes and — 
keep his secret and mine.” 

“It is my secret, too, Mrs. Farrar,” said poor 
Jack, rallying to the rescue now that danger threat- 
ened. “I will do whatever you wish, whatever you 
say. You shall have whatever money I have here 
and more can follow. You’re a brave woman. For- 
give me that I doubted you.” 

“Oh, never think of that now. Only keep my 
secret yet a little, and let me see you before ten 
to-night. That’s the hour that relief goes on again. 
I’ve watched them so often. And — and all the 
money you think — even a hundred — two hundred 
dollars. Oh, God bless you for the help you give 
me! Now, I know you wish to see her, and I must 
get into the open air awhile.” 


132 


i'ORT FRAYKR. 


Calling the maid servant, she bade her take Mr. 
Ormsby’s card to Miss Farrar, then hastened from 
the house. 

But the answer brought to honest Jack — poor feh 
low — was that Miss Farrar begged to be excused. 


CHAPTER X. 

A SNOW-CLOUD was hanging over Fort Frayne that 
lovely Christmas Eve, and the moon shone down 
through a filmy veil of lace and cast black shadows 
on the dazzling surface. Everywhere about the 
post lights were twinkling in the quarters, and 
sounds of soldier merriment and revelry came from 
the barracks. Over at the assembly room Rorke 
and his party were still busily at work hanging 
festoons of green and completing the decorations 
for the morrow, while in the several households 
among the officers dinner parties or similar enter- 
tainments called together under one roof or another 
almost all the families, as well as the bachelors of 
the garrison. The children were rejoicing in their 
great Christmas tree at the chapel. The colonel had 
bidden them all to his big house for a Santa Claus 
party after the public ceremony of the post Sunday 
school, and Aunt Lucretia, a garrulous, flighty, 
feather-brained fairy of forty summers or more, was 
doing her best to get the little gifts in proper order 
against their coming, being aided in her perplexities 
and complications by the dreamy, but devoted, 
Wayne. Kitty was dining at the Far wells’ — a tem- 
porary truce having been patched up between her 
and Will about sunset — and Ellis, too, very, very 
much against her wish, was one of this party. 
Ormsby was, of course, bidden, and had been placed 

133 


134 


FORT FRAYNE. 


next the lady of his love, but averted eyes and 
monosyllabic answers were the only returns of his 
devotion. Grieved and hurt at first, the sterling 
fellow was finally stung to reprisals. He was guilty 
of no wrong. He was worthy far kinder treatment 
at her hands, and, noting her apparent determination 
to talk only with the men across the table, or with 
Captain Amory, who had taken her in, the New- 
Yorker presently succeeded in interesting the lady 
on his right, and, when dinner was over, and the 
women passed out into the parlor, was enabled to 
make way for Miss Farrar with a very courteous but 
entirely ceremonious bow. Ellis, fiushed, but in- 
clining her head, passed him by without a word. 

It was then nearly 8:30 o’clock, and the gleeful 
voices of the children could be heard returning from 
the chapel, and, mindful of his promise to Helen 
Daunton, Ormsby was already figuring for an oppor- 
tunity of temporary escape. It had been arranged 
that most of the officers and ladies were to gather at 
the hoproom after ten, just to see if the floor was 
in good shape for to-morrow,” and Jack well under- 
stood that Ellis did not mean that he should be her 
escort, and, as matters now stood, he did not desire 
her to suppose that such was his wish. Even as he 
was pondering, over the cigarettes and coffee, how 
he should manage the matter, and, giving but ab- 
sent-minded attention to the cheery chat about him. 
Captain Amory suddenly lifted his hand and said: 
“Hush!” 


FOET FKAYIS’E. 


135 


Out across the parade, quick, stirring, and 
spirited, the cavalry trumpet was sounding officers’ 
call,” and every man sprang to his feet. ‘‘What 
can it mean? ” “ What has happened?” were the 

questions that assailed them as they came streaming 
out through the parlor in search of their great-coats. 

“ Did you ever know such a regiment? ” exclaimed 
the hostess, impulsively. “I do believe we never 
get through Christmas without a tragedy of some 
kind! ” and then she hither tongue as she caught 
sight of Ellis Farrar’s startled face. 

“I think if you will excuse me, Mrs. Farwell, I 
will go to mother a moment. She is at the chaplain’s 
by this time, and Mrs. Daunton is with her. Still, 
I feel anxious. All this may excite her very much.” 

And so, while the officers went hurrying away 
across to the adjutant’s office, Ormsby found himself, 
after all, tendering his arm to Miss Farrar. He was 
the only man left. Kitty, excited and agitated, she 
knew not why, had made some comical attempts to 
detain Will, but his long legs had by this time 
carried him half way to the scene of the sudden 
summons. 

“Thank you, no. Ido not need it,” said Ellis 
coldly. “Indeed, I do not need escort at all to go 
so short a distance.” 

“It seems to be the post custom none the less,” 
was the grave answer. “Besides,! think I am 
justified in saying you have treated me with aversion 
so marked of late that I am entitled to know the 


136 


FORT FRAYI^E. 


cause. What can I have done to deserve it, Ellis? 
Let us understand each other.” * 

‘‘There is only one way, then, Mr. Ormsby,” she 
answered, with sudden impulse. “Who is Helen 
Daunton? ” 

“ Ellis, I cannot tell you now,” was the sorrowful, 
gentle answer. “Be patient with me yet a little 
while.” 

“Yet you know? ” 

“ Yes — I know.” 

“And you say let us understand each other,” she 
answered, bitterly. 

“Ellis, I said to you before when we spoke of 
this, there are secret orders a soldier must obey and 
not explain. In these last few hours secret orders 
have come to me.” 

“And you accept secret orders — from her?” 

“ I accept them from my honor, Ellis, for I have 
given my word. No,” he implored, as she hastened 
as though to leave him, “listen, for it maybe my 
last opportunity to-night. I know it seems hard and 
strange to you that when I would lay my whole life 
open before you, I must not yet tell you this. But, 
Ellis, I give you my honor, I am hiding nothing 
shameful to that poor woman, nor to me. It is only 
for a time I must be silent. When I can speak 
you’ll forgive me, dear. You will thank me that I 
do keep silence now. Trust me, Ellis. Can you 
not look up at me and say you trust me?” 

Ah, how pleading was his tone, how full of love 
and fire and tenderness his manly face, as in that 


FORT FRAYNE. 


137 


still winter night he looked down into her eyes. 
Over at the barracks there was a sudden stop to 
all the music, but men’s voices could be heard in 
excited talk. Along officers’ row many a door 
was opened and women and children were peering 
out in search of explanation of the unusual summons. 
Over at the adjutant’s office a dark throng had 
gathered, the officers of the garrison and other knots 
as of soldiers or Indians could be seen, but Jack and 
Ellis, saw, heard nothing of this. Her voice had 
the ring of steel to it as she answered. 

‘‘If it were just a question of my own happiness, 
I might trust you, but it is my mother’s happiness 
— perhaps her life. I must know all there is to 
know about that woman whom my mother trusts so 
blindly, I must know for myself. In the name of 
the love you offer me, will you tell me the truth 
about her? ” 

“Ellis, I cannot to-night. I have given my 
word.” 

“ Then keep it,” said she with sudden passion. 
“ Keep it and keep your love,” then turned and fled 
within the chaplain’s gate, leaving him standing on 
the snowy walk without, sorrowing, yet determined. 

For a moment he stood there following her with 
his eyes. Never stopping to knock or ring, she 
turned the knob and let herself into the brightly- 
lighted hall. He caught a glimse of the gray-haired 
chaplain bending over a womanly form. He caught 
one fleeting view of Helen Daunton’s anxious face. 
Evidently the call had been heard there, too, and. 


138 


FORT FEAYNE. 


coming as it did in the stillness of the holiday even- 
ing, it boded no good. Only on rare occasions or 
some sudden emergency was Fenton known to call 
every duty officer to his presence, even by day, and 
he would be almost the last man to break in upon 
the festivities of the season with a stern call to arms 
unless arms and men both were needed somewhere. 
The day had been one long trial to Mrs. Farrar, and 
since noon one long torture to her cherished friend. 
And so, as they were seated about the chaplain’s fire 
and the trumpet notes were heard, and a servant 
hastening in said, ‘‘It’s officers’ call, sir,” just as 
Ellis feared, her mother was seized with sudden faint- 
ness. “ My boy, Willy! They won’t take him,” she 
faltered, and then sank back nerveless into her chair. 

Ormsby turned and sped away for the office. At 
least he could ascertain the cause of the summons 
and bring them tidings if it meant no move, but the 
first glance through the window at his uncle’s face, 
as he stood surrounded by his officers, told the New 
Yorker, already experienced in frontier garrison life, 
that something imminent was in the wind. Fenton 
was talking rapidly, as was his wont when roused, 
and the only faces in the group that did not seem to 
kindle in response to the light in his keen, sparkling 
eyes, were those of two heavily-blanketed Indians 
standing sullen and imperturbable beside him. Out 
in the snow half a dozen non-commissioned officers 
were gathered in a group by the little knot of Indian 
ponies and cowboy broncos. An Indian boy lolling 
in his saddle, replied in monosyllables to their eager 


FORT FRAYNE. 


139 


questions. A brace of cowboys, one of them ob- 
viously in liquor, sought to impress upon all within 
hearing their version of some row that had evidently 
taken place. Among the bystanders was Ormsby’s 
old friend, the sergeant major, and to him he ap- 
pealed. 

‘^What’s up, sergeant?” 

‘‘ Been a fight, sir — cowboys and Indians. Christ- 
mas drunk, I reckon. The cowboys were having 
some fun with their lariats and they roped old Big 
Road off his pony and shot at him when he showed 
fight. Then his two sons shot Laramie Pete, and it 
looks like a general scrimmage. Big Road’s whole 
village is camped only ten miles down stream, 
and they’re war dancing already. There’s a lot of 
drunken cowboys over at town and they swear they’ll 
rouse the county and clean out the whole Indian 
outfit.” 

Thanking the staff sergeant for his information, 
Ormsby pressed on to the crowded room and stood 
in the outskirt of the throng of officers. Fenton was 
speaking as he entered the hall, and his voice had no 
uncertain ring. He had been questioning one of 
the cowboy leaders, a scowling, semi-defiant, but 
splendidly built specimen of frontier chivalry, and 
it was evident that the verdict of the commander 
was against these turbulent gentry, and in favor of 
the Indians. 

‘‘By your own admission, Thorpe, your fellows 
are on a tear, and whether they meant it as fun or not, 
it was rough fun at best, and nothing less than a mad- 


140 


FORT FRAYNK. 


brained trick in my eyes, and an outrage from the 
Indian point of view. Big Road would have been 
no chief at all if he hadn’t resented it furiously. It 
may be, as you say, that he was first to pull his gun, 
but you pulled him off his horse. The men that did 
it deserve to be shot, and I’m sorry he missed. 
You say there are cowboys enough in the county to 
clean out a dozen such bands as his, and that 
Laramie Pete’s friends won’t rest until they’ve done 
it. Go you to them right from this spot and say 
for me there are not cowboys enough in all the 
territory to lick this regiment, and you’ve got to do 
that before you can raise one scalp in that village.” 

‘‘ All right. Colonel Fenton. In the old days we 
used to say blood was thicker than water, and in 
many a tough place we’ve stood by the soldier 
against the savage. There was never a time we 
went back on you, and this is the first time I ever 
heard of an officer who would go back on us — ” 

“Don’t distort things now, my friend,” said 
Fenton, coolly. “I never would go back on you, as 
you say, if you were the assailed and the wronged. 
This is a case of simple justice, and I interpose to 
keep the peace until the rights and wrongs can be 
sifted and settled. Take my advice and keep away 
from the village.” 

“ There’s a higher power in the land than the 
military. Colonel Fenton, and that’s public opinion, and 
public opinion says Big Road’s people murdered 
Laramie Pete. Public opinion says we want the 
murderers, and by God! we mean to have ’em even 


jFOJElT FRAYNE. 


141 


if we have to clean out the whole village. We want 
no fight with you, but, through the press and Con- 
gress, we’ll use you up till there won’t be as much 
left of you as the Sioux left of Custer’s crowd. 
Take my advice and keep away from us.” 

And so saying big Ben Thorpe, ‘ ‘ king of the 
cowboys,” as they called him on the Platte, strode 
angrily out of the room, the officers parting in 
silence to let him go. At the threshold he turned 
and once more faced the post commander. 

‘‘ Another thing. Colonel Fenton! ” and as he spoke 
Ormsby could see how the strong frame was quiver- 
ing with excitement and wrath. ‘‘You say we’re 
not the sheriff’s posse and we cannot act in accord- 
ance with law. There’s no sheriff in all Wyoming 
nearer than Rock Springs, and I’m sheriff in these 
parts until he comes. I’m sheriff enough to hunt 
murderers, and sheriff enough to run down horse 
thieves, and do it without waiting for warrants 
either, and that damned redskin whom you’re pro- 
tecting there by your side is one of the four that 
shot Pete Boland. I’ll send a sheriff’s posse here in 
ten minutes, and I’ll give you warning here and 
now we mean to have the law on him or you, and 
you take your choice. Will you surrender him? ” 

Ormsby felt his nerves and muscles quivering. 
This was indeed bearding the lion in his den. It 
was a new thing to see a post commander braved in 
his own bailiwick. Fenton, however, never showed 
the faintest irritation. Checking with a gesture 


142 


^ORT FRAYNfl. 


the indignant move made by some of the younger 
officers, he turned quietly to the officer of the day. 

“Captain Amory, let a file of the guard escort that 
gentleman off the reservation.” 

“ So be it, Colonel Fenton, and let the country know 
I was thrust off the post at the point of the sabre. 
I’ll wait for my escort.” 

He had little time to wait. Almost at the door- 
way already, the corporal’s guard, obeying the 
impatient summons of the young officer in command, 
came trotting up at double quick, a non-commissioned 
officer and two troopers. One of the latter, stocky, 
heavily bearded, slouchy, with furtive, blood-shot 
eyes, looked uneasily about hini as the detail halted, 
and, springing up the steps, the corporal lightly 
touched the cowboy on the shoulder. Thorpe had 
turned back as though to hurl some parting shot or 
sarcasm at the oppressor, but at the touch of the 
corporal’s hand looked coolly around. ‘ ^ Well, sonny, 
what do you want? ” 

“Come along, Ben,” 'said the corporal, quietly, 
then started back involuntarily at the expression of 
amaze and wrath that shot suddenly into the cow- 
boy’s face. 

“What! ” hissed Thorpe, striding apace forward. 
“You here? You officiating as policeman to show 
me off Uncle Sam’s jailyard. You, you sneak and 
scum!” he shouted, shaking a fist in Graice’s sodden 
face. “You, you braggart and blackguard — you 
coward, who left poor Crawford’s wife without a 
defender; you cur you stole the last cent he had, and 


FORT FRAYKE. 


143 


then betrayed him to the Indians; you liar who brag 
of being an officer’s son, and dare not own your own 
name. Stand back ! ” he fiercely cried, as the 
corporal once more strove to place a hand upon his 
shoulder. ‘‘I’ve no quarrel with you, Reddy, or 
with this other poor devil, who can only do as he’s 
ordered, but I’d die in my tracks before that white- 
livered hound should escort me off this post. Out of 
the way!” he cried, and with one magnificent bound 
reached his horse, leaped into saddle, and dashed a 
few yards away. Then, whirling about, he swung 
his hat in air. “Good night to you, gentlemen. 
Merry Christmas to you, one and all. You’ve got 
one of those bloody murderers here, so keep him if 
you choose, but we’ll have the other three before the 
sun rises in spite of all the thugs and thieves like 
that fellow you can muster in the cavalry.” 

And with a parting malediction at Graice and a 
lash of the stinging quirt, he whirled his bronco and 
dashed away at the gallop. 

“Damn that fellow!” said Fenton. “ I like him 
in spite of all his deviltry. There’s no help for it 
gentlemen, the Twelfth has got to spend its Christ- 
mas standing between those rough riders and the 
very band that killed our colonel — three long years 
ago. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Just as first call for tattoo was sounding (no one 
having thought to tell the orderly trumpeter that, 
both on account of the holiday and the unexpected 
duty for the garrison, ‘‘the rules were suspended,”) 
a long column of cavalry wound away through the 
shimmer of the snowy moonlight and disappeared 
from sight along the flats below the ^post. Fenton 
and Wayne, with four of the six troops, had ridden 
down stream for a ten mile march. His object was 
to bring Big Road, with his little village, warriors, 
women, children, ponies, dogs, dirt, and all within 
the lines of the reservation of Fort Frayne. Once 
there even cowboy dare not molest them, and no 
self-appointed sheriff could impose his authority. 
With all Thorpe’s bluster, Fenton felt reasonably 
assured that even in so turbulent a corner of 
Wyoming, the hustlers could not muster in force 
sufficient to warrant an attack that night. Big 
Road’s braves were few in number, but they were 
fighters to a man. Their sins, like those of all their 
tribe and kindred tribes, had long since been for- 
given them by Uncle Sam, and it was not for his 
vassals to keep up the feud. Rare, indeed, are the 
cases when the soldier has long cherished a grudge 
against the Indian. The Twelfth had fought like 
devils after the murder, as they could but regard it, 
of their beloved colonel, but when the opposing 

144 


FOET FEAYKB 


145 


band had finally surrendered and accepted the situa- 
tion, all rancor speedily died away. 

It seemed to the regiment, therefore, a perfectly 
natural and obvious thing that it should hasten forth 
to protect this little remnant from the revenge of 
the whites. Laramie Pete, with all his faults, was a 
frontier hero whose popularity was second only to 
that of Thorpe, and at the latter’s call, from far and 
near, cowboy, ranchman, miner, and prospector, 
would hasten to join forces under his leadership, 
and in twenty-four hours or less he could count on 
five hundred determined followers, fearless as they 
were reckless, and defiant of any law that was not of 
their own devising. 

In the selection of his troops Fenton had been 
governed by the time-honored tenets of the Twelfth. 
Leale’s men, having returned but a month before 
from a tour of detached service, escorting a Govern- 
ment survey through the lands of the Shoshones far 
to the west, were therefore the ones designated to 
remain in charge of the post, being supported by 
what was left of the so-called Indian Troop — Crow 
Knife’s company, a band of swarthy cavalrymen that 
took to Uncle Sam’s clothing, pay, and rations with 
avidity, and even to his drill and discipline, so long 
as it was a new toy; but little by little the innate 
sloth and restlessness of the savage nature prevailed, 
and, one after another, non-commissioned officer and 
private, the Sioux soldiery had been discharged un- 
til nearly all were gone. Of the dozen that remained, 
however, were some of the noblest specimens of the 


146 


FORT FEAYNE. 


race, men, who, like Crow Knife, seemed determined 
to rise above the apathy of the past into some posi< 
lion of power and influence for their people in the 
future, and it was almost unspeakable grief to these 
that they should be told that they could not go with 
the command. Yet Fenton’s decision was a wise one. 
Ever since Big Road’s messengers (White Wolf 
and Pretty Bear) dashed into the garrison at eight 
o’clock, claiming the intercession of the Great 
Father’s soldiers, the excitement among the remnant 
of the Indian Troop was furious. For a mo- 
ment it looked as though they might cast off their 
uniforms and, turning out in breechclout and paint 
and feathers, indulge in a genuine old-fashioned war 
dance on the parade. They were wild to get their 
arms and horses and to gallop to the succor of their 
kinsmen down the valley, but the lieutenant com- 
manding was a cool hand, and, aided by the persua- 
sive talk of one or two older warriors, measurably 
quieted the disturbance. Then, as most of th^ men 
on guard begged to be allowed to go with their com- 
rades, seven of the Indians were distributed among 
the three reliefs, and Leale’s men filled all the other 
gaps. It was about 9:30, as has been said, when 
the column marched away. It might be back before 
Christmas night. It might not be back for a week. 
No one at the moment could say because, even now, 
Big Road could have broken camp and started with 
his whole village on a night march for the fastnesses 
of the mountains, uncertain what f ate might be in 
store for them if he remained. With the column 


I'OBT FRAYNE. 


147 


went White Wolf and Bear, the former generally 
believed to be one of the four Indians engaged in 
the fracas that wound up the earthly career of Lara- 
mie Pete. Ahead of the column, full gallop, with 
only a single orderly, but with instructions to tell 
Big Road and his people to stay just where they 
were, as the Great Father meant to come to their 
protection, went Lieutenant Warren, and the maddest, 
‘‘miserablest” man in all the garrison was Lieuten- 
ant Will Farrar. 

When a young fellow is full of soldierly ambition, 
when he knows he is master of his work, and is eager 
for an opportunity to prove it, when everybody has 
been treating him as a boy and he knows he has all 
the ability of a man, when his sweetheart, even, has 
been teasing and twitting him upon his apparent 
lack of consequence in the eyes of the garrison, and 
he is therefore all the more mad to prove at any haz- 
ard that it contains no more daring and spirited an 
officer, such an opportunity as was here afforded 
Mr. Farrar was not to be lost. He had implored 
Colonel Fenton to let him be the bearer of the mes- 
sage, and was broken-hearted at the kind but firm 
refusal. ‘‘The Indian is peculiar. Will,” said the 
old soldier, gently. “ He never forgets or forgives. 
If his father had been killed as yours was he would 
hold it something to be avenged, although resent- 
ment had to be concealed, perhaps, for years. They 
know you are his son. They know that the white 
men are leaguing now to avenge the death of Pete. 
They cannot understand such a thing as white 


148 


FORT FRAYNTJ. 


soldiers, from sheer sense of duty and justice, inter- 
posing against their own kind to save the red man. 
In your coming they would read only treachery, and 
would argue that you came to urge their remaining 
so that we might join our white brethren in sur- 
rounding and wiping them out of existence. What- 
ever you urged, even in my name, they would be 
sure not to do. No, I must send Warren. They 
know him well and trust him.” But Fenton was 
thankful he had so good an excuse, for even without 
it he could not have brought himself to send 
Marjorie Farrar’s only remaining son upon a mission 
that might prove* perilous — that would certainly 
seem perilous in her eyes. 

Hastening to the chaplain’s as soon as Thorpe made 
his melodramatic exit, Ormsby was met at the door 
by the good old dominie himself and begged him to 
say to Mrs. Farrar that there was no cause for 
alarm: there had been a fight between Indians and 
cowboys seveml miles away, and Colonel Fenton 
had decided to send a. force out to keep the peace. 
She heard his voice, and faintly but eagerly asked 
that he should come in. It was Helen, not Ellis, 
who bore her message, Helen, who noted with com- 
fort, and Ellis, with mixed emotion, that the mother 
had learned to lean upon this stanch and devoted 
friend. Mrs. Farrar took his hand and looked ap- 
pealingly up into his face as he briefly told her what 
had happened and what the colonel had decided to 
do. 

‘‘Will Willy have to go? ” was her one question, 


FORT FRAYNE. 


149 


and, ignorant as yet that Leale’s troop would he 
designated to remain, Ornc'sby gravely answered that 
he presumed the entire command was ordered out. 
‘‘But,” he added*, reassuringly, “ that fact itself is 
the surest guarantee of peace. There can he no 
further disorder in face of so strong a force.” 

For all answer she howed her head and hid it in 
her slender white hands. No wonder it seemed as 
though Christmas ever brought its tragedy to her at 
old Fort Frayne. 

And then came diversion that was merciful. There 
was a rush of light footsteps, a flutter of silken 
skirts on the porch without, a bang at the door and 
in came Kitty, flushed, disheveled, tearful, indig- 
nant. 

“What’s this about Willy’s going?” she de- 
manded. “ Where is he? What business has he — 
Why! he cannot go, Mrs. Farrar. He’s engaged to 
me for the german to-morrow night.” 

There was something so comical in her utter in- 
ability to understand the gravity of the situation, to 
realize that a soldier’s duty far outranked even so 
solemn a compact as an engagement to dance with 
his sweetheart that even Mrs. Farrar forgot her grief 
and a]3prehension for the moment and opened hei: 
arms to the imperious little lady and drew her to 
her heart. 

“Ah, Kitty, you* have the same lesson to learn 
that I had long years ago ” she cried, as she sought 
to soothe and console the child, but Miss Ormsby 
was in ^o mood for petting. She was up in arms. 


150 


FORT FRAYNE. 


She was being defrauded. Uncle Fenton had no 
business whatever to send Willy away on such a 
quest at such a time. It was worse than incon- 
siderate. It was outrageous, and then Mrs. Farrar’s 
face went white again as she asked what Kitty 
meant^ and then Kitty’s nerve gave way and she 
buried her bonny face on that motherly shoulder and 
burst into tears. 

‘‘ I thought you’d heard,” she sobbed. ‘‘They 
have only just told me. Captain Far well came 
home to change his dress, and I asked him where 
Will was, and he said he left him offering his 
services to Uncle Fenton to ride ahead to the 
Indians, and he wanted to know if I didn’t think 
Will was a trump. I don’t! — I didn’t! — I think it’s 
simply h-h-heartless in him! ” 

And then Mrs. Farrar raised her eyes appealingly 
to Ormsby, and he went without a word. He knew 
what she needed, and hastened in search of Will. 
He found him at Fenton’s, whither he had accom- 
panied the colonel, and where he was still pleading, 
and tugging at his tiny mustache and tramping up 
and down and biting his nails, while Fenton, in the 
adjoining room, was calmly getting out of his dress 
clothes and into winter field garb. 

“ Would you mind dropping this and going down 
to the chaplain’s and comforting your mother and 
my sister? ” said Ormsby, as soon as he could get in 
a word edgewise. 

“Yes, go. Will,” said Fenton, “and tell her 
that there is nothing whatever in this affair to worry 


FORT FRAYNE. 


151 


about. We’re merely going to bring old Big Road 
up here to take Christmas dinner at the fort. There’s 
no chance for a fight, or you should go along. No; it’s 
useless arguing, my boy. I’d do anything for you 
that’s right, but this is absolutely unreasonable on 
your part. Now go and tell those two blessed 
women that you’re to remain on guard over them, 
and they’ll rise up and call me blessed — at least 
they ought to. 

And so, finally, Ormsby got the peppery young 
fellow out of the house and fairly started, Ormsby 
keeping pace with him as he strode excitedly from 
the room. 

‘‘ I want you to do something for me. Will,” said 
he in a low tone, as they hastened along. ‘‘ I’m go- 
ing with the command, and I haven’t a moment to 
spare. Give this note to Mrs. Daunton for me as 
soon as possible after you reach the house. May I 
rely upon you? ” 

And as he spoke he held forth an envelope, evi- 
dently snugly filled, and Farrar took it mechanically, 
and without reply. The boy was thinking only of 
his own disappointment. ‘^Do you understand, 
Will? ” persisted Ormsby. ‘^Itis of great impor- 
tance that she should have it before ten o’clock. 
You won’t forget? ” and wondering now, Farrar 
promised, and Ormsby turned abruptly back. 

‘‘I wish to the Lord I were in your place,” was 
poor Will’s parting shout, as the guardsman hurried 
back to dress for the night ride. Already the four 
troops had inarched to stable^ and were saddling. 


152 


FOET FEAYNE. 


Already there were sounds of excitement over across 
the river, and much scurrying through the straggling 
street of the cattle town of well-mounted ranchmen 
and «« cow punchers.” Thorpe was as good as his 
word. He was rousing the county with a ven- 
geance, hoping to ride down the valley in strong 
force within the hour and ‘‘wind up the whole 
business” before the cavalry could come to the 
rescue of the offending band. Will could hear the 
occasional whoop and yell that came ringing over on 
the still night air, and he was in a petulant mood, 
bordering on exasperation, when admitted at the 
chaplain’s and ushered into the parlor, where Kitty 
still lay, clasped in the mother’s arms. 

She scrambled to her feet the instant he entered 
and began an energetic outburst, but the sight of 
his woe-begone face checked her suddenly. Mrs. 
Farrar read instantly the cause of his gloom, and 
her eyes brightened with rejoicing. 

“ Willy, my boy, then you don’t have to go? ” 

“Don’t have to go!” was the wrathful answer. 
“ Don’t have to go! I’ve been on my knees to that 
stony-hearted old rip for the last ten minutes, and 
he won’t let me go! ” 

“God bless him!” were the mother’s fervent 
words. ‘ ‘ He knew — he well knew what it would 
cost me to have my only boy torn from me at this 
time,” was the thought that flashed through her 
mind, and her eyes welled with grateful tears, 
though she could say no more. It was Kitty who 
restored the social equilibrium. “ I won’t have you 


FORT FRAYNE. 


153 


speak of Uncle Fenton in that disgraceful way, Mr. 
Farrar. You ought to be thankful you don’t have 
to go, as you put* it. Have you totally forgotten 
our engagement for to-morrow night? ” 

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kitty! What is that at 
such a time as this? There won’t be a sign of a 
dance, unless they all get back in time, and I’d 
rather be dead than left here the first scout the 
regiment has after my joining it.” He threw him- 
self disgustedly into a chair, refusing to see his 
mother’s outstretched hand, and for the time being 
absolutely indifferent to Kitty’s reproaches. It was 
the discovery of this fact that taught her how 
thoroughly in earnest he was, taught her that there 
was something alive in his heart of which she might 
well be jealous, and for the first time in her life the 
girl stood a little in awe of him, and, relinquishing 
her purpose of upbraiding, she turned back, baffled 
and defeated, and took refuge by the mother’s 
chair. 

‘‘Tell us who are to go, Willy,” said Mrs. 
Farrar, entreatingly. 

“ Everybody but me — and Leale. They’ll be off 
in ten minutes, too. Even Jack Ormsby goes, and 
I’m ordered — absolutely ordered — to stay here, as if 
I were some — some baby in arms, unfit to do duty 
with my fellows. I’ll never forgive Fenton as long 
as I live.” 

“ And I’ll never forget it,” murmured the mother, 
as she gently checked Kitty, once more about to 
burst into impetuous speech. “ I’m sure Colonel 


154 


FORT FRAYNB. 


Fenton had grave and good reasons for keeping you 
here, my son, and if so tried and brave a soldier as 
Captain Leale can remain without reproach, surely 
you can.” 

“There’s just the difference,” answered Will 
miserably. “Leale has been under fire and on try- 
ing duty time and again. His reputation was as- 
sured long years ago. I’m treated as a boy by — by 
everybody in this garrison, high or low, and for- 
bidden a chance to do a thing. If you folks want to 
see that command off the sooner you get out to the 
bluff the better.” 

“But you are going to take us, Willy,” said his 
sister, sympathetically, “Kitty and I, at least, 
wish to see the regiment. Do you care to go, 
mother, dear? ” she asked anxiously, and, then, 
crossing over to her mother’s side, bent down and 
kissed her, but the question was no sooner asked 
than she would gladly have recalled it — “or will 
you come home now with me?” she hastened to 
say. 

“I’ll take mother home,” said Will. “ Go on if 
you want to see them start. I don’t. That’s more 
than I could possibly stand. The chaplain will take 
you gladly enough.” 

And so at last did Miss Ormsby begin to realize 
that even in the eyes of the man she had captivated 
she was for the time being of no account. 

It was one of Fenton’s fads to have out the band 
when the regiment or any considerable detachment 
of it marched away, and now, even at night, he did 


FORT FRAYNE. 


165 


not depart from his practice. The chaplain had 
opened the door to note the progress of the prep- 
arations across the parade. Orderlies with the 
horses of the officers were trotting past. The non- 
commissioned staff were already mounting at the ad- 
jutant’s office, and over at the band barracks the gray 
chargers, the music stools of the musicians, were be- 
ing led into the line. A mounted band was something 
that Kitty had never seen, and curiosity and coquetry 
combined, led her to lend her ear to the chaplain’s sug- 
gestion that she should come out and see the column 
ride away and wave good-bye to her admirers among 
the subalterns. If Will persisted in his ill temper 
there was no sense in staying there, and perhaps the 
quickest way to bring him to terms was to manifest 
interest in his fellows. So, leaving him to the 
ministrations of his mother, she danced away to the 
front door, Ellis promptly following. The night 
was still and beautiful, softly hazy, and not very 
cold, and the scene across the snow- covered parade 
was full of life and animation. Lights were dancing 
to and fro among the company quarters. Two of 
the designated troops had already marched up from 
the stables, formed line in front of their barracks, 
and dismounting, were awaiting the sounding of ad- 
jutant’s call and the formation of the squadron. 
Officers were mounting every moment along the row 
and trotting out to join their commands, and 
presently, from the colonel’s big house on the edge 
of the bluff came three horsemen clad in heavy 
winter field garb, and even in the dim light there 


166 


FORT FRAYNE. 


was no difficulty in recognizing Fenton’s soldierly 
form. These were joined by the adjutant as they 
rode out upon the parade, and then one of the 
group came jogging over towards the chaplain, 
followed by an attendant orderly. It was Jack 
Ormsby, and Kitty fluttered down to the gate to 
meet him. 

‘‘You and Aunt Lucretia will have to keep house 
by yourselves to-night, little sister,” said he laugh- 
ingly, as he bent to kiss her good-bye. ‘ ‘ Corporal 
Rorke is to sleep at the house so that you will not 
lack for guards. Where’s Will? ” 

“ He’s with his mother in the parlor, and just too 
miserable for anything,” said* Kitty, who, now that 
she could see for herself the preparation for a march, 
began to feel far more sympathy for her lover, if not 
actually to wish that she were a man and could go 
too. Ellis, quick to notice Ormsby’s coming, had 
slipped back within the hall and partially closed the 
door. Glancing over her shoulder she could see that 
her mother had left her reclining chair and was bend- 
ing fondly over Will, smoothing his tumbled hair and 
striving to soothe and comfort him, but it was evi- 
dent that Will was sorely hurt, for he turned away 
in irrepressible chagrin and distress and covered his 
face with his hands. Helen Daunton, forgetful for 
the moment of her own bitter trouble, had sought to 
.aid her friend in consoling the boy, but it was her 
first experience in such a case. She had never real- 
ized what it meant to a proud and ambitious young 
goldier to be held in garrison when his comrades 


FOBt FBAYNE. 


157 


were being sent. to the field; and finding presently that 
she could be of little aid, she drew away toward the 
window to join the chaplain and his wife, who were 
gazing out upon the parade, when the stirring notes 
of adjutant’s call came trilling through the hazy 
moonlight, and with a groan that seemed to rise from 
the depths of his heart, poor Will threw himself face 
downward upon the sofa, utterly refusing to be com- 
forted. 

“ Come,” said the chaplain in a low tone, ‘‘They 
will be better left to themselves. Let us go out and 
see the troops form line,” and hastily quitting the 
parlor they came suddenly upon Ellis lingering at 
the outer door. 

“Mr. Ormsby was saying good-bye to Kitty,” 
she nervously explained, “ and I remained here for a 
moment. He is still there. ” 

Yes, still there, although he had said adieu to his 
little sister and the squadron was rapidly forming on 
the parade. Still there, and looking now and then 
beyond Kitty’s pretty, pathetic little face, clouded 
with a trouble altogether new to it. Still there, and 
longing for a sight of the face he loved as he did no 
other, despite all its coldness and aversion. Then 
they came hurrying forth — the old dominie and his 
faithful helpmeet, the two young and beautiful 
women — and at sight of them Ormsby suddenly dis- 
mounted, and passing the reins to his orderly, ran 
nimbly up the steps and extended his hand, “ Good 
night, chaplain — Good night, Mrs. Ransom. We 
count on eating our Christmas dinner here, despite 


158 


FORT FRAYNF. 


the night march. Good night, Miss Farrar,” he 
added, gravely, gently. “We still hope to be here 
to wish you Merry Christmas. Please extend my 
sympathies to Will. I know how hard it is for him 

to stay. Good night, Mrs. F Mrs. Daunton,” 

he stumbled on, and extended to her the hand which 
he had withheld from Ellis. “ Oh, pardon me. Did 
Farrar give you a note I intrusted to him for you? ” 

“Not yet, Mr. Ormsby. He has hardly thought 
of anything but his grief at being retained here.” 

“Well, ask him for it before ten o’clock. It” — 
and he was halting painfully now, for Ellis, with- 
drawing a pace from the group, was gazing straight 
into his face — “ it — it explains itself. You’ll under- 
stand it. Good night, good night, all. I must 
hurry.” And with that he ran down the steps and 
out of the gate, mounted quickly, and without a 
backward glance rode quickly away to take his place 
by the colonel’s side. Another moment, and the 
adjutant, galloping out in front of the long line of 
horses, had presented the squadron to Major Wayne, 
and that distinguished officer, unexpectedly awake and 
lively, lost no time in preliminaries, but broke his 
command at once into column of fours, and with the 
band playing its joyous march music, and with old 
Fenton himself in the lead, away they went down 
the winding road to the flats to the east. Once out 
of the garrison, the band wheeled out of column and 
played the troopers by, then trotted back to unsaddle 
for the night. Men, women and children, the popu- 
lace of Fort Frayne, gathered along the eastern edge 


FORT FRAYKE. 


159 


of the plateau, and silently, and in not a few cases, 
tearfully, watched the column out of sight in the 
dim, ghostly light, and then little Trumpeter Mei- 
necke came out from the guardhouse and trilled the 
martial curfew that sent them shivering homeward — 
an ominous Christmas eve tattoo. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Ten o’clock and no one ySt came riding back 
from the column with later news. Almost as soon 
as the command had disappeared from view Mrs. 
Farrar had gone home, Helen, Ellis, Kitty and 
Will in close attendance, and there they were pres- 
ently joined by Aunt Lucretia, whose volubility 
even calamity seemed powerless to check, and 
then to the relief of all the women. Captain Leale 
knocked and was promptly admitted. 

‘‘I am in search of my right-hand man,” said he, 
with his bright, cordial smile. ‘ ‘ They tell me he is 
playing Achilles and sulking in his tent, but I have 
work for him to do,” and then once more did Kitty 
look remonstrance, for she could form no idea of 
work for him that did not involve deprivation for 
her. 

‘‘You are not going to send Mr. Farrar away after 
all,” she began, but Leale laughingly checked her. 

“Far from it,” said he. “I need him at the 
guardhouse, and mean to put him, in charge of the 
prisoners when they come in. The chances are that 
the colonel will have to arrest not a few of those fel- 
lows, and he’ll do it in the interest of peace and good 
order, despite the fact that he has no warrant. Are 
you ready, sir?” « 

“I’m ready and willing to do any duty. Captain 
Leale,” answered Will, ruefully. “But I was the 
160 


FORT FRAYKF. 


161 


first to volunteer for that courier ride to Big Road, 
and I think the colonel ought to have given it to me. 
I’ll he officer of the guard to-morrow, anyhow, and 
would just as lief begin now. Shall I come at once?” 

‘‘Yes, the second relief goes on in a few minutes, 
and you would better inspect them. Everything is 
started right. You have a capital sergeant of the 
guard. I want the sentries on the north and 
east bluffs instructed to listen for all sounds from 
the east, and to keep a close watch on that plant 
of Bunco Jim’s. Watch every movement in that 
rowdy town over yonder, though I believe most of 
the populace has already ridden away at the bidding 
of the so-called cowboy king.” 

Will bent over and kissed his mother’s forehead, 
‘‘I’ll get my sword and go at once,” said he, “and 
I’ll be back as soon as I’ve made the rounds of the 
second relief. I suppose nobody here means to turn 
in for an hour yet. We ought to have news of some 
kind before midnight. ” With that he quickly left 
the little parlor, and vaulting the low fence, let him- 
self in at his own door in the adjoining bachelor 
roost. Mrs. Daunton, who had been occupying her- 
self close to Mrs. Farrar, presently arose and stepped 
into the hallway, took a heavy wrap and noiselessly 
quitted the house. Surprised, Captain Leale looked 
about him for an explanation. Ellis had drawn aside 
the curtain, and with pale, set face, was gazing 
fixedly out upon the parade. Kitty looked bewildered. 
It was Mrs. Farrar who spoke 

“This has been a trying day for Helen. She is 


162 


FORT FltAYKE. 


not Strong, I fear, and to-night she is so nervous and 
unstrung that she seems to shrink from company or 
conversation. I have never known her so distracted. I 
fancy she wants to be alone a few minutes and to take 
the fresh air on the gallery.” Ellis moved impa- 
tiently, but said not a word. She could see that so far 
from having stopped on the gallery, Helen Daunton 
had hastened through the gate, and, turning to Will’s 
quarters next door, was there awaiting his reappear- 
ance. The boy came out in a moment, his sword at 
his side, and wrapping his cloak about him, stopped 
short in evident surprise at sight of Mrs. Daunton. 
Ellis well understood the purport of the conversation 
that ensued, though she could hear no word. Will 
searched one pocket after another, then ran back into 
the house, came forth again in less than a minute, 
handed a square white envelope to Mrs. Daunton, 
and, raising his forage cap in farewell, hastened away 
across the parade. Ashamed of her espionage, yet 
fascinated, Ellis lingered at the window and saw 
Helen tear open the envelope, and draw forth a little 
packet or roll, which she closely inspected and rapidly 
counted over. Money! Treasury notes beyond ques- 
tion! Money, and paid her by Jack Ormsby! Ellis 
dropped the curtain and turned away. She cared to 
see no more. 

Over at the guardhouse the second relief was being 
formed as Farrar reached the spot — seven soldiers in 
their fur caps and gloves and heavy winter overcoats 
and arctics. The corporal had just reported them 
all present, and the lieutenant quickly yet closely in- 


FOET FBAYNE. 


163 


spected their equipment, then stepped to the front 
again. 

‘‘In addition to the usual orders,” said he, 
“Numbers Six and Seven are cautioned to keep a 
sharp lookout and to listen attentively for anything 
at the eastward. In the event of any unusual sight 
or sound, call for the corporal at once. Who is Num- 
ber Five? ” 

“Graice, sir,” said the corporal. 

The young officer’s face darkened a bit. He had 
no trust in the man whatever and knew well his evil 
reputation. “Graice,” said he, “ you have double 
functions to-night. You have not only the same 
orders as Six and Seven, but the commanding officer 
directs that you keep a special watch over the settle- 
ment across the river, particularly of the plant of 
Bunco Jim. I believe you know it.” 

“There are plenty of others that know it as well,” 
was the surly and unexpected answer. 

“That will do, sir,” was the stern rejoinder. 
“You were asked no questions, and will keep silent 
until you are. Do you understand your instructions? ” 

“I am not deaf,” was the sullen response. 

“Answer my question, Graice,” said Will, ting- 
ling with indignation, but keeping his temper. There 
was a moment’s silence, then — 

“ I ’spose I do. ” 

‘ ‘ There appears to be some doubt, however, ” said 
Farrar, coolly. “Post your relief, corporal, and we 
will look further after Number Five. Has that man 


164 


FORT FRATNE. 


been drinking again? ” he turned and sisked the silent 
sergeant, as the relief marched away. 

“It’s hard to say, sir. He’s one of those steady 
soakers. It would be difficult to find him when he 
hadn’t been drinking more or less. I think he has 
been drinking all day, but he knows what he’s doing, 
and is as sober as he is at any other time.” 

Farrar gazed doubtfully at the relief as it trudged 
away through the misty moonlight; shook his head 
in some dissatisfaction, then turned in at the door- 
way of the tower. 

“ I will look over the guardroom and cells,” said 
he, “ and visit sentries later,” and, taking up his 
lantern, the sergeant followed. 

A big stove burned brightly in the center of the 
guardroom, and the men of the third relief, sitting 
or sprawling about, sprang up and stood to attention 
as the officer looked in. Another stove, the mate to 
it, was burning almost at red heat in the general 
prison room, across the hall. Here were confined 
some half dozen poor devils, the scapegraces of the 
command; some drink-sodden and stujDid, others 
merely reckless and “jae’er do weel.” Following 
the spirit of holiday decoration, and never expecting 
the visit of an officer that night, one of the number, 
with a fine sense of humor, had induced a comrade to 
fetch him a parcel from the barracks, and now on 
the bare wooden wall opposite the entrance there 
hung a chromo with a flowery border and the pious 
sentiment, “God bless our happy home.” Will’s 
eye caught it at the instant. “ Take that down! ” said 


FORT FEAYNE. 


165 


he, with manifest indignation. There is to be no 
burlesque business here to-night.” There was a 
faint odor of dead tobacco about the grimy room. 

You’ll have to search those men and that room,” 
said he to the sergeant, as they turned away. There 
must be neither pipes, matches nor anything with 
which they can start a fire. If this old rookery ever 
flames it will go like a flash. Do it at once! Any 
men in the cells? ” 

^‘None, sir, and none in the outer prison room.” 

‘‘Keep the other empty, then. The chances are 
it’ll be filled to-morrow when the column gets back. 
Remember the orders about fire.” 

“No man’s like to forget that, lieutenant, with 
the powder stored there on the second floor.” 

“ I know,” answered Will, gravely. “ How much 
powder is there there? ” 

“ Only a dozen cartridges for the reveille gun, sir, 
but that’s enough to blow the place into flinders.” 

“ There’s no one in the light prison room on that 
floor? ” 

“No one, sir. That floor is empty. There’s no 
fire up there at all.” 

Presently the tramp, tramp of martial feet was 
heard on the crunching snow, and officer and ser- 
geant both stepped forth to receive the relief of 
sentries just taken off post. One of them was Crow 
Knife. He gravely saluted as he passed his officer, 
and placed his carbine in the arm rack, then went 
out on the east side of the little building and stood 


166 


FORT FRAYNB^ 


there, silent, listening for sounds from the distant 
east. 

“ May I have the lieutenant’s permission to go out 
on the blujff awhile? ” he asked, as Farrar came by 
him. ‘‘ I can hear the call of the corporal if we are 
wanted for anything, and I am very anxious.” And 
AYill, who at first would have said no, saw the • 
anxiety in the Indian’s face and consented. 

‘‘Crow is strangely superstitious,” said the ser- 
geant, after a moment’s silence. “He has been like 
that ever since he came on guard. He says the 
ghost dogs were howling the death song last night, 
and that somebody’s to get his death blow to-night. 
We can’t laugh him out of it.” 

Will turned away and watched the rapidly-re- 
treating form, growing dimmer every second. “I 
suppose he dreads trouble for his people, and this 
row makes him nervous,” said he. “ I’m going the 
rounds now, sergeant, and will leave you here in 
charge.” 

“ It is just 10:30 now, sir. Shall we call off?” 

“Ay, ay, let it go,” was the answer, as the 
young fellow stalked away in the direction of the 
stables. It was his purpose to take the sentry posts 
in inverse order, so as to visit first those on the east- 
ern flank. 

Without a break the watch-cry went from man to 
man, Number Five shouting a gruff , stentorian, “All’s 
well,” that again directed the attention of the officer of 
the guard to his probable condition. The last sentry 
had called off and Number One had given, loud and 


FORT FRAYNE. 


167 


prolonged, the final assurance that all along the chain 
was peace and security before Will reached the bot- 
tom of the slope and began his examination of the 
stables and corrals. The last thing he saw as he cast 
a backward glance northward along the snowy slojDe 
that terminated the plateau on its eastern side, was 
the solitary figure of Crow Knife standing mute, mo- 
tionless and attentive, just at the upper end of the 
post of sentry on Number Six. 

He was delayed unexpectedly among the stables, 
for one of the orderlies, in the absence of his troop 
and officers, had gone visiting among his associates 
in the adjoining building, and one or two spare 
horses were loose and roaming about the gangway. 
The next thing he heard of his sentries there were 
excited shouts for the corporal of the guard, and 
hastening out into the night to ascertain the cause, 
he nearly collided with little Meinecke, the trum- 
peter. 

‘‘Lieutenant,” cried the boy, breathlessly, “Crow 
Knife’s killed, sir. Stabbed to death! ” 

“ My God! ” moaned Will, as he hastened up the 
slope. “There’s a curse on Christmastide at old 
Fort Frayne.” 

When ten, — twenty minutes had passed away and 
Helen Daunton failed to return, Mrs. Farrar had be- 
come anxious and ill at ease. Leale, too, had been 
listening eagerly for her step on the porch without, 
and, unable to control his longing to see and speak 
with her, despite her palpable efforts to avoid him, he 
had early taken his leave and gone forth in search. 


168 


FOET FRAYNE. 


Ellis, slipping from the parlor into the dining-room, 
had thence managed to go to her own little chamber, 
for a moment or two to herself. Whatever doubt 
remained as to the justice of her suspicions up to 
dinner time that evening, it was banished now and 
her heart w^as hard against Ormsby that he should 
have so braved and deceived her. Looking out from 
her window she could see much of the walk in front 
of Officers’ Row, but not a sign of Helen Daunton. 
The clouds had thickened, the moonlight had grown 
dimmer all of a sudden. Once more the snow was 
sifting down. She could not dream where Helen 
had gone. 

It was a desperate woman who stole silently out 
of the little army home and intercepted Lieutenant 
Farrar at the gate. In few words she made known 
her errand and asked for the note Mr. Ormsby had 
placed in his hand, and Will for the first time remem- 
bered it. He had stowed it in the pocket of the over- 
coat he was wearing as he returned with Ormsby 
from the colonel’s, and was compelled to run back 
indoors again to find it. Absorbed though he was 
in his own trouble. Will could not but remark how 
strange it seemed that his mother’s companion should 
be seeking, and Ormsby sending, those mysterious 
notes at night. He made such explanation and ex- 
cuse as he could, however, then hurried away. With 
nervous fingers Helen counted over the money in the 
envelope. Two hundred dollars! Ormsby was in- 
deed generous. Then desperate, determined, thought- 
less of the military crime she was about to urge upon 


FOKT FRAYNE 


169 


Tier husband, thinking only of the dreadful menace 
his presence was to the friends who had harbored 
and sheltered her, she sped away up the row, and 
turning through the broad open space near the col- 
onel’s quarters, came out upon the snow-covered 
brow of the heights overhanging the silent, ice-bound 
stream; and there, barely a hundred feet away, the 
dim outlines of that huge, hulking figure could be 
seen. She knew it only too well — knew it at a 
glance. Graice was standing on post at the moment, 
listening, apparently, to some faint, distant sounds 
of maudlin revelry that rose from the unhallowed 
walls of Bunco Jim’s, beyond the Platte. With one 
brief muttered prayer to heaven for guidance and 
strength, she sped across the snowy expanse and was 
at his side before he could either halt or challenge. 
He never had time to speak before impetuously she 
began: 

Royle Farrar, I must speak to you here and now. 
If your being here^ meant only danger and harm to 
me, you might do your worst and I would bear it. 
You are under a false name. Your life has so 
changed you that as yet no one has recognized 
you, but it cannot last, and then there will 
be bitter shame and, perhaps, death that would 
lie at your door — your mother’s; your poor, gentle 
mother, Royle, who holds her life only through the 
belief that you are no longer alive to bring further 
disgrace to your father’s name.” 

But now he had partially recovered himself and 
angrily interrupted: ‘^Is it my fault I’m here? 


170 


FORT FRAYNE. 


Did I suppose of all cursed places they’d send me to 
it would be here, to be ordered about by my cub of 
a brother, to see my noble captain making love to 
my—” 

‘‘You dare not say it! ” she cried. 

“You’ve had some experience of what I dare, my 
lady, and one thing I dare and mean to do is to 
stick it out right here and take my chances at Frayne. 
There’s no other post where I’d find so many friends 
at court if things go wrong.” 

“ You shall not stay here if I have to buy you to 
go,” she cried, but she shrank even as she spoke, as 
though dreading a blow, for, with uplifted hand 
he sprang to her side; then roughly, savagely, seized 
her slender wrist. 

‘ ‘ Who are you to pose as guardian angel of the 
Farrars? Who are you to say shall to me? Do you 
realize, my love, that your place in the army is not 
in officers’ quarters, but down yonder in Laundresses’ 
Alley? By the Lord! I’ve a mind — ” 

But here a dark shadow fell between him and the 
slender writhing object of his brutal rage; an iron 
grasp was laid in turn on the hand that so cruelly 
crushed the white wrist. A deep voice, eloquent 
Avith wrath, controlled, yet boiling, seemed to ring 
in his ears the two words, “Let go!” and then, re- 
leasing perforce his hold on the shrinking, startled 
woman, Graice writhed in furious effort to free him- 
self from the clinch of Malcolm Leale, and writhed 
in vain. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


171 


‘‘You’ve the devil’sown grip,” he savagely hissed 
through his grinding teeth. 

“I’ve a grip, my man, that won’t loosen till you 
are past doing further mischief here,” was the stern, 
relentless answer. Then uplifting his voice, Leale 
shouted for the corporal of the guard, and at the in- 
stant the cry went echoing over the posts of Six and 
Seven. The sentry still writhed in impotent rage. 
Finding his struggles futile, he once more lashed 
with his tongue. 

“Don’t be too sure of that, captain. There are 
some kinds of a hold even your grip can’t loosen.” 

“No insolence! You go from here to the guard- 
house, as it is.” 

“Damn the guardhouse and you, too!” raged 
the soldier, hurling down his carbine. “If I’m 
to spend Christmas in limbo, I’m cursed if you 
shall spend it making love to my — ” and here, 
with a tigerlike bound, his free hand brandishing a 
glistening knife, he lunged at the officer’s throat. A 
lithe form had come leaping like a panther up the 
path, and even before Helen’s cry had died away, 
Crow Knife had hurled himself between the men, 
and the shining blade Avas buried out of sight. There 
was a moment of furious struggle, and then the sen- 
try lay felled like an ox in his tracks and Leale’s foot 
was at his throat. The knife, blood-stained, had 
dropped in the snow. The Indian, his hand pressed 
to his side, was swaying slowly back, as the sergeant 
of the guard, with a brace of men, cq-me running to 
the spot. 


172 


FORT FRAYNE. 


“Take this man to the guardhouse!’’ was the brief, 
stern order, as they lifted Graice, stunned and sod- 
den, to his feet. Then the captain turned to Crow 
Knife. “Did that crazy brute strike you? Are you 
hurt? ” he asked, in deep concern. 

“Captain,” said the Indian, slowly. “I believe 
I’m killed.” 

Leale sprang to support him. Other men, running 
to the scene, linked their hands and made a chair and 
raised the poor fellow from the ground. “Carry 
him gently to the hospital, lads. I’ll be with you in 
a moment,” said Leale, and then he turned to where, 
trembling, terrified, Helen Daunton still stood as 
though powerless to move. 

“Helen — Mrs. Daunton! First let me see you 
home. I ask no confidence, no explanation, but this 
is something in which I must help you. I have 
guessed the truth, have I not? That man is your 
brother? ” 

“My brother. Captain Leale? God pity me — that 
man is my husband! ” 

For a moment not another word was spoken. 
Leale had recoiled — staggered — as though struck a 
mortal blow. Then, in hoarse whisper, so choked 
and broken seemed his voice: — 

“Your husband! Your husband, Helen? Oh, my 
God! And I had thought you free to be loved, as I 
have learned — as you have taught me — to love you. ” 

“Captain Leale! ’’she cried. “ In pity say you 
do not believe that. Oh, hear me! Do not turn from 
me,” she implored, for in his misery he had averted 


FORT FRAYKE. 


173 


his face. ^‘Tou shall not think me so vile,” she 
went on, desperately. “I never knew until to-day 
that you had learned to — care for me. I thought all 
that had gone with my youth — oh, so long ago! I 
only asked of life a place where I could be useful 
and safe, and where, by and by, perhaps I could for- 
get. I have seemed to myself so old and dull and 
sad, so different from the women men love that I 
never dreamed it my duty to say I was not free. Oh, 
I thought you were my friend. My heart has been 
so heavy and so numbed I have thought it dead since 
that Christmas Eve, four years ago. Ah, let me tell 
it to you and you will understand. Four years ago 
this night my little sick baby woke and wailed with 
pain. That man — my husband — was in a drunken 
sleep on the floor. The baby’s cry woke him. He 
swore a dreadful oath at the little weak, white thing 
in my arms and struck it hard across the mouth. I 
don’t know what wild words I said to my husband, 
but I told him I would never see his face again. 
Then I caught my baby to my breast and I ran and 
ran through the cold Christmas streets, and the stars 
went out, and the lights went out in the houses, and 
the little baby on my breast grew heavier and heav- 
ier, and by and by it was dawn, and, oh, so cruelly 
cold, and I — I opened the* shawl and saw — ” Here, 
overcome by the recollection the poor woman covered 
her face in her hands and burst into wild sobbing. 

And then the captain turned. ‘‘Helen, Helen, 
my poor, poor girl! Hush! I spoke like a brute, 
but I was hit hard. I was your friend — I am your 


lU 


FORT FRAYNlC. 


friend. It is late. You must go in. Take my 
cloak, you are shivering.” 

With that he turned and led her to the angle by 
the colonel’s quarters, and there she looked up one 
instant into his sorrow-stricken face. “ Do not 
come further with me,” she implored. ‘‘ You have 
been so good to me,” and, bowing to her will, he let 
her go, and stood, following her swiftly retreating 
form with his longing eyes. And then, soft and 
sweet and clear, as though rising above all surround- 
ing of crime or sin or sorrow, there floated on the 
night the prolonged notes of the cavalry trumpet 
sounding the soldier lullaby — Lights out.” 

Lights out,” murmured Leale. ‘‘Lights out — 
ah, .God help me — for life and love it is, indeed, 
lights out.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Clear and sparkling Christmas morning dawned 
on old Fort Frayne. The clouds that obscured the 
moon at midnight sent fluttering earthward a fresh 
fall of snow and spread a spotless coverlet over the 
valley of the Platte, softening rude outlines, capping 
with glistening white roof and chimney, tree and 
tower, and mercifully obliterating the unsightly 
streaks that led across the frozen river, and the deep 
red blotches that smeared the post at No. 5. 

Two discoveries had been made by the officer of 
the guard in his search after the removal of Graice, 
struggling and cursing savagely to the prison room 
on the second floor, where Leale himself directed 
him placed, instead of among the garrison prisoners 
in the general room. One was that the sentry had 
received from some source a flask of whiskey, after 
being placed on post, for, half emptied, it was found 
in a woodpile back of the officers’ quarters. The 
other was that he had more than once meandered 
from the beaten path to the rear gateway leading to 
the Farrars’ quarters, as though some powerful at- 
traction drew him thither. 

Even before the tragedy which had shocked the 
garrison at taps, busy tongues had everywhere been 
telling of Thorpe’s furious denunciation of Graice 
and of the statement as to his claim to being the son 
of an officer. Members of the guard had noticed the 

175 


176 


FOET FEAYNE. 


fury that seemed to possess Graice after that episode. 
He slunk away from his kind as though unable to 
face them after having passively received such a 
scoring. He had twice been refused by the ser- 
geant permission to leave the guardhouse, as it was 
surmised he had liquor hidden somewhere, and was 
craving its fiery comfort and stimulant now. So 
strong was his conviction on this head that the ser- 
geant had searched him before letting Graice parade 
with his relief at 10:15. But Graice knew too much 
to conceal a fiask about his person. Looking only 
for liquor, the sergeant unluckily had failed to 
notice the keen knife that was secreted within the 
breast of his overcoat, and that knife had done 
bloody and disastrous work. It was evident to all 
that he must have been drinking heavily after taking 
his post, for he was reeling when led to the guard- 
house, and the mad imprecations on his lips were 
frightful to hear. 

Up to reveille Christmas morning not a word had 
come from Fenton’s command, but soon after 
stable call a courier rode in with a note to Leale. 
‘‘All right,” it cheerily read. “We found the 
whole band spoiling for a fight and ready to clean 
out half the county anyhow, but the cowboys kept 
at respectful distance until we got there. Then 
when they knew a fight wouldn’t be allowed they 
came charging down and demanded battle or the sur- 
render of White Wolf and his three pals. Two of 
the latter were half way to Crazy Woman’s Fork by 
this time, and I do not ofBcially know the other, so 


i'OEl' FEAYNE. 


1?? 


the whole village moves up under our wing and will 
camp on the low ground to the west of the fort. 
Then, when the civil authorities come with warrants 
and the assurance that the two shall have fair play 
and a square trial, Big Road will surrender the al- 
leged murderers. Meanwhile no cowboy shall be 
allowed on the reservation. We should be back by 
noon.” ‘Signed’, “Fenton.” 

And by noon back they came, the big squadron of 
regulars, the motley village of Sioux, followed at 
very discreet distance by an equally motley array of 
cowboys and citizens, and all Christmas afternoon 
the industrious squaws were pitching the tepees on 
the westward flats, herding the ponies and cooking 
for their lords, while most of these latter were loafing 
about the post, glad of a chance to prowl around the 
quarters and storehouses and beg for anything they 
saw or fancied. As for “society” at Frayne, it ac- 
cepted the bliss of the situation as readily as it bad 
mourned the necessity that sent the command away, 
and, except in one or two households, all thought 
was centered in the briefly-interrupted preparations 
for the festivities of the coming night. 

Wyoming winter days were short enough, yet this, 
almost the shortest of the year, had already proved 
too long, too trying, to more than one comparative 
stranger within the gates of Fort Frayne. The story 
of Graice’s furious outbreak, of Crow Knife’s de- 
votion and dangerous wound, had gone like wildfire 
over the once more crowded garrison. The former, 
as has been said, was safely locked in the smaller 


118 


FORT FRATNF. 


prison room of the old guardhouse, where for a time 
he had been heard savagely raging at his bars and 
kicking at the resounding woodwork; Crow Knife^ 
borne on a blanket to the hospital, lay silent, patient, 
and hovering between life and death, the captain 
whom he loved and for whom he had periled his life, 
sitting steadfast by his side. 

Night came on strangely still. The boom of the 
sunset gun, — the evening chorus of the trumpets 
and the voices of the men at roll-call all muffled by 
the fleecy fall of snow, — yet there was premonition 
in the air, and old-timers glanced at the sky and at 
the yellow sunset, gloomily predicting ugly weather 
before the coming morn. Within the cheery mess- 
rooms, where the troopers were wont to flock 
with bustle and ‘‘chaff” and all manner of fun, 
mingling with the clatter of plate and knife and 
spoon, among -the cozy homes across the parade, 
where the families of the officers gathered at dinner, 
the gloom of Graice’s drunken crime, merged in 
the shadows of the wintry gloaming, seemed to op- 
press every heart, killing joyous laughter, saddening 
soldier tones, stifling merry quip and jest, strangling 
every effort to throw off the weight that had settled 
on old and young, on one and all. Even among 
the more reckless and indifferent of the men, 
Leale’s impartiality and justice had won respect that 
outlived their dread of his stern and unyielding 
discipline. Even those who had suffered at his 
hands could not but admire more than they hated 
him. Among nine-tenths of the troopers he was 


FORT FRAYNE. 


179 


held in solid esteem, among very many in almost 
enthusiastic affection, but one and all they united 
in praise of his conduct on this trying occasion, and 
in deep, if not loud denunciation of his brutalized 
assailant. As for the other, the more reputable if 
red-skinned savage, the soldiers had but one opinion: 
Crow Knife was the whitest Indian in Wyoming, 
and they meant it as a compliment despite its un- 
flattering possibilities. 

Graice himself had made no friends. A man with 
a grievance is never popular among soldiers, high or 
low, and Graice’s sullen, surly ways had estranged 
even those in whom his mouthings against his supe- 
riors of every rank, from colonel to corporal, might 
possibly have responsive echo. That there should be 
talk of lynching was characteristic of the time and 
neighborhood and the associations of frontier life, 
and that it would come to nothing in a military gar- 
rison, its most strenuous advocates fully realized. 

And all the same, despite the prevailing gloom, 
the preparations for the dance went on. Battle and 
murder and sudden death from which we worldlings 
so earnestly pray deliverance, were matters that 
might mar, but could not down, the soldier love for 
social gayeties. Were it otherwise there would have 
been many a year in the history of our little army 
wherein no music sounded save the dirge, and the 
only answer to the battle volley was its measured 
echo at the grave. Just as the bandsmen peal their 
most joyous strains as they lead the funeral column 
on the homeward march, so must there be the merry 


180 


FOET FKAYNF. 


sound of music and the dance in every garrison of 
the far frontier, or the wolf’s long howl and the sav- 
age war whoop, the battle cry, and dying moan live 
unbanished from the tortured memory, and mind 
and matter both give way under the ceaseless strain. 
The morbid curiosity that brought shivering little 
squads of children and delegations from Sudsville and 
the stables, ay, from Officers’ Row, to peer at 
the scene of the fierce and sudden affray still sent its 
victims thither, and questioners were perpetually 
bothering Rorke and his assistants as they were put- 
ting the finishing touches to the decorations and 
lighting the lamps about the ballroom. 

“G’wan out o’ this, Finnigan,” said Rorke, flour- 
ishing his broom at the little group. Go to your 
quarters, Collins. Divil knows there was no per- 
suadin’ on ye to come a-visitin’ here when wurrk was 
on hand; but now ye shmell the spread, an’ drame 
o’ crumbs and heel-taps, ye’re as privilent as poor 
relations at a wake. Arrah, go talk to me ould hel- 
mit over at the barracks yonder — me head’s tired. 
Shure I’ve tould yer lasht night’s dark shtory tin 
toimes over, an’ there’ll be no more shtory to tell till 
we know whether it’s loif or death for Crow Knife 
— poor soul — at the hospital yonder, an’ a rope or a 
penitentiary cell for that drunken divil in the guard- 
house tower.” 

‘‘What’s he in the tower for?” asked Trooper 
Martin. “All by himself is he? Too fine for the 
general room?” 

“ Too fine? Too wise, crazed as he was, ” answered 


FORT FRAYNE. 


181 


Rorke, ‘^as to thrust himself in the general prison 
room. Sure he begged pitiful to be shut up by him- 
self and not put loike an onrighteous Daniel into 
that din o’lions — manin’ two Indians an’ a woild 
Irish prisoner or two, an’ they knowin’ him to harve 
his comrade’s blood, not dhry on his hands.” 

‘‘Yes, and if things go wrong with Crow,” said 
Martin, reflectively, “I reckon Graice will wish fire 
would stand his friend again, as he was telling us it 
did in Mexico.” 

“ Arrah, if foire were to visit him this night it’s 
him wad visit the divil in short order,” said Rorke, 
looking out of the window. “There’s purgathory’s 
own wind that’ll be abroad presently, an’ a fire 
shtarted anywhere in the post wad foind thim car- 
tridges in the guardhouse before we cud say our 
prayers. G’wan out of this, ye omadhauns,” said he, 
flourishing his broom again at the crowd that gath- 
ered about him. “ Shcat down to Sudsville wid ye be- 
fore your betters come to foind ye disfigurin’ the 
landscape. Off widye,ye son av a soap dish,” he cried 
to a laundress’s child, “ and tell yer mother she ruined 
my best shtable frock wid her bluin’ lasht week. 
Faith, it ran loike the legs in yer father’s breeches 
the lasht fight we were in, — bad scran to him for the 
worst cobbler in the cavalry. Out wid every moth- 
er’s son of ye,” he cried, driving them all out but 
Kraut and Martin. “Shut that dure now, Kraut, 
and bar it wid the broad av yer back, till I get the 
schrane before the enthrance.” 

But Martin still had other questions to ask. ‘ ‘ They 


182 


FORT FRAYNE. 


say the Indians of Crow’s troop will be neither to 
hold nor bind if that’s his death, wound that Graice 
gave him*. I’m told there’s mutterings about their 
having Graice out of the guardhouse to-night, tower 
or no tower.” 

Rorke turned and gazed out of the window to 
where the lights were beginning to burn in the little 
building. ‘‘I pity the man,” said he, ‘Hhat thries 
to have him out whin Captain Leale’s there to watch 
him and says he shall sthay in.” 

‘‘Will Crow Knife die, do you think, corporal?” 
asked Martin. 

“Oi don’t know. The doctor believes it, an’ for 
the besht reasons, — shure he knows what he’s been 
giving him.” 

The voices of ladies could be heard at the moment 
at the vestibule, and presently, with their escorts, 
Mrs. Farrar and Ellis came hastening in as though 
they had come purposely to have one look at the old 
colonel’s portrait before the gathering of the rest of 
the party. A little behind them, pale and with an 
expression that seemed to tell of the strain through 
which she had been passing, Helen Daunton came, 
leaning on the arm of Major Wayne, whom she led 
to one side, as mother and daughter stood in front of 
the picture. 

“The light seems perfect,” said Mrs. Farrar. “I’m 
sure I see your hand in all this, Rorke, and I want 
to thank you not only for myself, but for your old 
CploDcl. It’s many a Christmas we both of us have. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


183 


seen with the old regiment, and the first of them I 
was a girl bride and you a wee boy trumpeter. ” 

‘‘Indade, ma’m,^’ answered Rorke, ‘Hhose were 
merry Christmases that came afther, whin you used to 
come to the min’s dances there a-ladin’ little Masther 
Royle — plague on me tongue! Phat am I sayin’ of?” 

‘‘Speak of him when you will, Rorke,” she 
answered, gently. “I love to have him brought 
before me, as we remember him then; my Royle — 
my brave boy! ” 

“Dade, an’ he was worth remimberin’, ma’am. 
The handsome wild young rider — free wid his 
money and free wid his fists. Many’s the toime I’ve 
had to shtand betune him and his little brother — him 
as is my shuperior officer this day, — Oh, but it’s a 
foine officer he makes, does Masther Will! I never 
see him so sthrait an’ handsome and martial on 
parade — loik his father before him — him that’s gone 
to glory wid the love av ivery soldier that iver knew 
him, that I don’t remimber thim days whin I was 
a recruit an’ he was the colonel’s kid. Och, what 
days — what days! ” and, lost in the enthusiasm of 
his reminiscences, Rorke failed to notice that Lieu- 
tenant Farrar and Kitty had come quietly in and 
were standing but a little distance behind him. “ Do 
ye remimber, now, ma’am, the Christmas Masther 
Will mounted his little pony, ahl dressed up to kill, 
an’ ’twas to take the docther’s daughter out ridin’ 
he wud, an’ tin minutes later we brought him home 
ahl dhrippin’ and rippin’ and ragin’ ahl along av 
Oorcorin’^ ould billy goat hayin’ butted him into tjie 


184 


FORT FRAYNE. 


ditch back o’ Company D’s quarthers an’ him ready 
to kill me for burstin’ wid laughin’. Oh, he was a 
foine boy — And here Will came furiously for- 
T^ard, and Rorke, horror-stricken, stiffened up to 
the salute. I beg yer pardon, Masther Will.” 

“Your reminiscences are ill timed, corporal, to 
say the least. If you’ve quite finished, you’d better 
follow your men — unless — ” and this he added with 
scathing sarcasm, and glancing at Kitty, who was 
convulsed with laughter — “unless, perhaps. Miss 
Ormsby desires you to further entertain her with 
anecdotes of my childhood,” and here Kitty burst 
in. 

“I? Mercy, no! My constant effort is, out of 
respect to you, to forget your youth, not to recall it. 
Surely, you’re not going to put on that horrid thing 
again? ” she exclaimed, as Will, who had laid aside 
his overcoat and sabre, now buckled on the weapon. 

“Are you afraid I’ll injure you with it? ” said he, 
with deep sarcasm. 

“ Oh, not a bit,” said Kitty. “Nor anybody else 
— unless you should happen to cut yourself. ” 

“Gibe away. Miss Ormsby,” said the officer of 
the guard. “You cannot gibe me into laying aside 
my sabre. As duty forbids me to appear without it, 
even your wishes cannot be regarded.” 

“What? You officer of the guard?” exclaimed 
Kitty. “Ah,” with sudden change of manner, 
“then for one night the post is safe.” Here she 
seized Rorke’s broom and took the position of charge 
bayonet. “ Who comes there? ” she cried. “ The 


FOET FEAYNE. 


185 


enemy a million strong! Halt, enemy and tremble! 
Run for your lives! Do you know who is 
officer of the guard? It’s Masther Will.” And 
then, turning from him in saucy imitation of his 
swagger and stride, with her broom at right shoulder, 
away she marched for the dressing-room. 

‘‘She’s past patience,” said poor Will to himself, 
justly wrathful at such ignominious treatment at the 
hands of his love, and what made it worse was that 
numbers of people were rapidly arriving and that 
many had witnessed and enjoyed Kitty’s saucy mock- 
ery; but right in the midst of these new arrivals 
came an orderly trumpeter with a note which he lost 
no time in delivering to Mr. Farrar with the brief 
announcement: “The officer of the day’s compli- 
ments, sir, and he said the lieutenant should have it 
immediately.” 

Helen Daunton was among those who marked the 
swift coming of the messenger, and it was impossible 
for her to resist the impulse that drew her toward the 
young officer. Intuitively she knew that that mes- 
sage in some wise concerned her wretched husband, 
now the object of the wrath and curses of the whole 
command. Breathless she watched Farrar as he tore 
open the envelope and rapidly read the brief inclos- 
ure. 

“Crow Knife is dead. There is intense excite- 
ment among the men, especially the Indians, and 
threats of lynching have been heard. Graice knows 
his peril, and may try to escape. Look well to your 
guard. Farwell, Officer of the Day.” 


186 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘‘Escape from my guard,” Helen heard him say, 
if he were my own brother 

The next minute Will had caught up his cap and 
overcoat and started for the door. 

But Kitty had already begun to repent of her ex- 
periment and to question whether she had not 
hazarded too much in thus provoking her devoted 
but none the less peppery lover. Peering from the 
dressing-room, she saw him dart past Helen Daun- 
ton, giving very brief answer to some question 
asked, saw him pick up his cap and coat, and that 
was more than enough to bring her to terms. Un- 
aware of the coming of the orderly, she looked upon 
Will’s preparations for departure as proof positive 
that he was so angered against her as to have decided 
to quit the ballroom for good and all. In an instant 
she came fluttering to his side, catching him only at 
the very doorway. 

Where are you going, Mr. Farrar?” she de- 
manded, aggrieved and imploring, both. “You’re 
engaged to me for the very first dance, sir. Surely 
you’re not going out?” 

“I regret to have to ask for my release. Miss 
Ormsby,” answered Will, with infinite dignity, 
“but duty of unusual importance calls me at once. 
My sabre and I made sport for you a moment ago, 
and now we are going where both are needed,” and, 
bowing very low and looking very majestic, the offi- 
cer of the guard turned and abruptly left the room, 
leaving his late tormentor gazing after him with eyes 
that suddenly filled and lips that quivered suspi- 


FOBT FKAYNB. 


187 

ciously. Ellis saw through it all at once and came 
to comfort her. 

Strange to say, the young officers were gathering 
but slowly to-night, and several of their number had 
not yet arrived. The musicians were in their places 
and already awaiting the signal of the floor manager, 
but Leale’s absence was remarked by many of those 
present, and when Fenton entered, his face, usually 
so jovial, was clouded and anxious. Ormsby was 
with him, and his eyes seemed to seek and find Ellis 
at once. Kitty was just turning away as they came. 
She had watched Will’s tall figure disappear in the 
gloaming toward the guardhouse, and now precipi- 
tated herself upon Uncle Fenton to demand an expla- 
nation of Will’s mysterious references to important 
duty, and once again, therefore, Ellis was alone. 
Ormsby stepped quickly to her side. She would 
have escaped to the dressing-room, but could not do 
so without passing close beside him. She could not 
be deaf to the mingling of reproach and tenderness 
in the tone with which he spoke. 

‘‘It would be advertising our — difference were 
you to deny me a dance or two. Miss Farrar, and I 
have come to remind you of your promise. You 
have not forgotten?” 

“I think all promises are at an end between us,” 
was the cold, constrained reply. “I forget nothing. 
I remember only too well.” 

“Ellis,” said he, with sudden impulse, “these 
are the last words we can have alone, for I have 
determined to go, and by the very next train. I 


188 


FORT FRAYNE. 


appeal no longer for your love. The girl who has 
not learned to trust cannot learn to love, hut I do 
appeal to your sense of justice not to pass blind, 
cruel judgment on the innocent woman whose secret 
I am shielding at the cost of what is dearest to me 
in life.” 

But she was immovable. Like the soldier’s daugh- 
ter she was, she looked him squarely in the eyes as 
she answered: 

“Neither an innocent woman nor an innocent 
secret can need shielding at such a cost.” 

“Ellis,” he began, his voice trembling with emo- 
tion, as he stepped close to her side, but she recoiled 
from him, and, noting it and the entrance of new 
arrivals, he strangled the impulse that swayed him, 
and, after a moment’s silence, continued, in a tone 
as cold as her own: “No; I see it is useless. The 
last word is said; but we cannot forget the world is 
looking on to-night. You will give me — this 
dance? ” 

She inclined her head in assent, but would not 
trust herself to speak. Even now, when angered 
and full of jealous distrust, she cared for him far 
too well not to note the sudden change in tone, not 
to feel vague yet deep distress that he had taken her 
at her word — that he had determined to leave her 
this very night — that he would plead no more. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


An hour later and the long-expected Christmas 
ball was in full swing, but the late comers entered 
snow-covered and buffeted, for, just as Corporal 
Rorke had predicted, a howling blizzard was sweep- 
ing down from the gorges of the Rockies, and whirl- 
ing deep the drifts about the walls of old Fort 
Frayne. Leale had come in about tattoo, grave and 
taciturn, his fine face shadowed by a sorrow whose 
traces all could see. He had come for no festive 
purpose, was still in undress uniform, and, after 
a brief, low-toned conference with his colonel, had 
turned at once in search of Helen Daunton, who, 
ever since the dance began, had hovered near the 
windows that looked out toward the guardhouse, 
barely one hundred yards away, yet now, even with 
its brilliant light, only dimly visible through, the 
lashing storm. Twice had Mrs. Farrar essayed to 
draw her friend into the little circle by which she 
was surrounded, but Helen had speedily shown she 
was unable to give her attention to what was being 
said or to take any part in the conversation. It was 
at the window Leale found her, and gently but firmly 
drew her to one side and closed the- shade. 

“I have felt in every fibre,” said he, ‘‘how you 
were waiting, watching, and agonizing here for news 
from — from him. There is no news, Helen, except 
189 


190 


FOET FEAYKE. 


— you know the man he stabbed — who gave his life 
for me — is dead?” 

‘‘ I know,” was the shuddering answer. Has he 
heard? Does he realize? ” 

‘‘ Possibly not. He seems to be sleeping. But 
he will know it soon enough. Helen — do you know 
this — that to-morrow we must give him up?” 

‘‘ Give him up? ” she asked, unable to comprehend 
his meaning, and looking with new dread into his 
compassionate face. 

Yes, to the civil authorities. He has — I cannot 
choose words now — he has committed murder and 
must be tried by a civil, not a military, court.” 

“You must give him up,” she moaned. “Oh, 
what can we do — what can we do? ” and, fearfully 
she glanced to where Mrs. Farrar was seated, chat- 
ting blithely, even joyously, now, with her garrison 
friends. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ and well I know now why 
you gaze at her. I know all the miserable truth. 
Ormsby told me when he came to ask my counsel 
and my help. He has only left me a short time 
since. I was pledged to help your husband, Helen, 
and I am doubly pledged to help that dear, dear 
woman’s son. I must protect Hoyle Farrar to the 
utmost of my power, but, Helen, in this last half 
hour, by the bedside of the brave fellow who gave 
his life for me, I have looked life and my own soul 
in the face. I know what I must do and what I 
cannot do. I am not strong enough to play at 
friendship with the woman I love with all my soul. 


I’ORT FEAYNE. 


191 


I can only be your friend by serving you from far 
away. When what is coming to Royle Farrar has 
come, I shall take leave of absence and go over the 
sea. It is good-bye between us now. To-night I 
look my last upon the face of Royle Farrar’s wife. 
"What? You want me, Will?” he suddenly turned 
and asked, for at this moment, throwing back the 
snow-matted hood of his overcoat, Farrar entered 
and came quickly to them, unseen by his mother. 

^‘Yes, sir. The news of Crow Knife’s death is 
all over the garrison, and the men are fairly mad 
over it. They won’t try lynching, but the sentries 
at the guardhouse are doubled, front and rear. 
Graice is sleeping yet, or else shamming. I don’t 
think he’s too drunk not to realize what would hap- 
pen if Crow Knife’s people got at him.” 

‘‘Then your duty is doubled, lad,” was Leale’s low- 
toned answer; “ to hold the prisoner and to protect 
him, too.” 

“ I understand,” said Will, firmly. “The man 
who gets at him to-night, sir, will have to go 
through hell first.” 

And then he turned to find Kitty standing, smil- 
ing in saucy triumph at his elbow, leaning on the 
colonel’s arm. Still angered against her and deeply 
impressed with the importance of the duties devolv- 
ing upon him, Farrar would have hastened by them 
with only brief and ceremonious salutation, when 
Fenton stopped him. 

“ Where did I understand that you were going, 
sir?” said he with mock severity of manner. “I 


FORI' FRAYNE. 


gave you permission to remain here, sir' and you’d 
better jump at the chance. Here’s my niece telling 
me that you are engaged to dance with her, and at 
this moment it seems you are about to leave the 
room. Off with that overcoat, or it’s your sabre 
that will come off, sir, in arrest. What! Slight a 
member of your colonel’s household? Lord bless me, 
sir! it’s tantamount to mutiny! ” 

‘‘But colonel,” responded Farrar impetuously, 
“the officer of the day — ” 

“Not another word, sir. Here is your officer of 
the day,” said he, indicating Kitty, “and you will 
report for duty instantly.” 

Irresolute, rejoicing, disappointed and perturbed 
all in one, Farrar stood one moment hardly knowing 
what to do, when Kitty seized him by one arm, and 
Leale, noting his embarrassment, stepped to his aid. 

“I am going to the guardhouse. Will, and I will 
look after your duties there. Have your dance and 
return at your convenience. The colonel will let 
you go after awhile.” 

And then Kitty resumed her sway. “I shan’t 
dance one step with you until you take that dreadful 
thing off,” said she, indicating his dangling sabre, 
and utterly ignoring his protest that, as officer of the 
guard, it was an essential part of his uniform and 
equipment. Her only response was that he was to 
remember that he was then on duty to her. “ Take 
off that sword, sir, and hurry about it, for there goes 
the band.” And so unslinging the heavy weaj^on, 
he handed it submissively to his imperious queen, 


FOET FEAYNE. 


193 


who promptly stowed it away under the wooden 
settee against the wall, and then, curtesying to her 
partner, indicated to him that at last he was at lib- 
erty to lead her to the dance. 

And now, smiling, joyous, and once more thrilling 
with mischievous delight, as she bore her sulky prize 
across the room, Kitty came suddenly upon the major 
standing mooning and preoccupied, gazing, appar- 
ently, at the portrait of Colonel Farrar, yet, as was 
equally apparent to the little knot of laughing look- 
ers-on, seeing it not at all. Kitty was on the point 
of accosting and bringing him to himself, but with 
eager whisper and gesticulations Amory, Martin 
and others called her to them. 

Don’t wake him,” they murmured. ‘‘Do let 
Aunt Lou have that comfort. See, she’s coming to 
him now,” And, as what Kitty most wanted at that 
moment was an opportunity to restore her inter- 
rupted dominion over her angered lover, and as he 
was blind and deaf to anything but the consideration 
of his own grievances, personal and official, Wayne 
was left to become the central object of interest, 
while Kitty drew her deposed officer of the guard to 
a distant corner. 

Wayne was a study. That he was struggling to 
recall some important matter was evident to all who 
had long known him, and for the time being he was 
lost to all consciousness of surrounding sights and 
sounds, and had floated oS into that dreamland of 
reminiscence in which only he was thoroughly at 
home. One or two of the ladies who were at the 


194 


FORT FRAYNE* 


moment resting from the dance, stood leaning on 
the arms of their attendant cavaliers and watching 
with them the result of Lucretia’s timid, yet deter- 
mined, approach. Almost tiptoeing, as though 
afraid that her noiseless footfall might rudely awaken 
him, she was stealing to his side, and presently they 
saw her lay her hand upon his arm and peer trust- 
ingly up into his face. Thinking only of him and 
for him, she, too, then was almost unconscious of 
any observation, kindly and good-natured though it 
was. 

Unwilling to interrupt too suddenly the current of 
his meditations, she hesitated before speaking. Then, 
half timidly, she suggested: '‘You like the picture, 
major?” 

Slowly his gaze came down from the flag-draped 
portrait, and through his eye-glasses Wayne benig- 
nantly regarded her. Finally his wandering wits 
returned and he aroused himself to faltering answer 
to her repeated question. “It makes him look too 
old,” he said. “I can’t bear anything that looks 
old, don’t you know?” Then, dimly conscious of 
something he might have put in far happier form, 
he quickly strove to recall his words. “I — I don’t 
mean women, of course — I like old women. You 
know I liked you twenty years ago.” 

“You left me to guess it, then,” murmured she, 
vaguely gi'ateful for even this admission and desir- 
ous of encouraging avowals even thus late and luke- 
warm. 

“Yes,” he went on, “you know it seems to me — 


FORT FRAYNF* 


195 


wasn’t it that last night we danced together at Jeffer- 
son Barracks? That was every day of twenty years 
ago.” 

‘‘Ah well,” answered Lucretia, “you know it is 
so very difficult to reckon from, because that was the 
29th of February, and that coming only once in four 
years, you — ” 

“Hah!” Wayne laughingly interrupted, and then 
suddenly fell back again into his old mooning 
way. ‘ ‘ And yet, you know, there was something I 
wanted to ask you that night, and I was so confound- 
edly absent-minded — ” 

“Oh, very,” said she, “for you mentioned that 
there was something you wanted to ask me and I have 
— I’ve been wondering what it could be for twenty 
years.” 

“Do you know,” said he delightedly, “so have I 
— so have I.” And here he leaned beamingly over 
her, and his eye-glasses fell off and dangled at the 
end of their cord. “It was only to-night,” he went 
on, “it came to me that it was something connected 
with this ring — my class ring, you know. It’s odd 
I can’t think what it was. Why, your hand is 
trembling!” Coyly she upraised it to meet the com- 
ing ring, and then again he faltered. 

“I remember I was holding the ring just like this, 
when somebody called to me that I’d better hurry — ” 

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “Indeed you’d 
better hurry.” But he was still wandering in the 
past. 

“It seems to me — oh! they’d sounded officers’ call, 


196 


FORT FRAYNE. 


and that meant the devil to pay somewhere, don’t 
you know?” But Lucretia was wilting now, de- 
spondent again, for still he went on: “You know, 
I fancied until the very next day that I’d left the 
ring here,” and, suiting the action to the word, he 
slipped it on her finger, “and yet the very next day, 
when I was on scout, I found — I found it here,” and 
with that he again replaced it on his own finger. 
Lucretia’s face was a sight to see. There was an 
instant of silence, and then, failing to note the expres- 
sion of her face, looking into the dim recesses of the 
past, he again wandered off. “Of course I might 
have known I couldn’t have left it on your finger 
without even seeing — without even seeing if it would 
fit — without — ” and here he lost the thread of his 
language entirely, and, groping for his glasses, find- 
ing them, distractedly he tried to fit their spring on 
Lucretia’s finger. Fenton, who had joined the group 
of onlookers, could stand it no longer. Bursting in- 
to a roar of laughter, he came toward them and, thus 
interrupted, poor Wayne dropped both hand and 
eyeglass, madly trying to fit his own ring into his 
own eye, and look through that under the impression 
that it was a monocle. 

“ What on earth are you people laughing at? ” he 
inquired. 

“Laughing at? At your trying to make a spec- 
tacle hook of Lucretia’s hand, you inspired old luna- 
tic,” was Fenton’s unfeeling answer, and poor Lucre- 
tia, unable to stand the raillery at the moment, 


FORT FRAYNE. 


197 


turned and fled to the dressing room, leaving Wayne 
to confront his tormentors as best he might. 

But while music and laughter reigned within the 
wooden walls of the assembly room and many young 
hearts were able to cast aside for the time being the 
oppression that had settled upon the garrison earlier 
in the evening, and while in some of the barracks 
there were sounds of merry-making and Christmas 
cheer, there was raging in many a breast a storm as 
wild as that that whirled the snowdrifts in blinding 
clouds all around and about the guardhouse, where a 
score of seasoned troopers, silent, grim, and by no 
means in love with their task, were keeping watch 
and ward over their little batch of prisoners, espe- 
cially of the cowering wretch who had been stowed 
away in the upper room, an utterly friendless man. . 

Over across the wind-swept parade, among the 
rows of wooden barracks, was one building where 
no laughter rang and about which, wary and vigilant, 
three or four non-commissioned oflicers hovered in- 
cessantly. Here were quartered Crow Knife’s few 
remaining comrades of the Indian Troop. Here 
were gathered already a dozen of his kindred from 
Big Road’s transplanted village, forbidden by the 
fury of the storm to return to their tepees up the 
valley, banished by the surgeon from the confines of 
the hospital, where they would fain have set up 
their mournful death song to the distraction of the 
patients, and refused by the colonel the creature 
comforts they had promptly and thriftily demanded, 
except on condition that they consume them in quiet 


198 


FORT FRAYNB. 


and decorum at the Indian barracks and deny them- 
selves the luxury of their woe. Tomtom and howl 
were stilled, therefore, while the funeral baked meats 
went from hand to mouth, and disappeared with mar- 
velous rapidity, and, indeed, but for its exciting 
effect upon the warriors, the colonel might as well 
have accorde(^ them the right to lament after their 
own fashion, since the howling of the tempest would 
have drowned all human wail from within the wooden 
walls. But while they had promised to hold no abo- 
riginal ceremony over CroTV Knife’s death, and meant 
to keep their word, they had refused to pledge 
themselves to attempt no vengeance on his slayer. 
Well they knew that, throughout the garrison, nine 
out of ten of the troopers would have cared not a 
sou had some one taken Graice from the guardhouse 
and strung him up to the old flagstaff without 
benefit of clergy, but this would not have satisfied 
Indian ideas — hanging according to their creed being 
far too good for him. Two of the best and most 
trustworthy Indians were placed by Leale, with the 
surgeon’s consent, as watchers by the bier of the 
soldier scout, but the others to a man were herded 
within the barracks and forbidden to attempt to set 
foot outside. Close at hand in the adjoining quar- 
ters the men of two troops were held in readiness, 
under orders not to take off their belts, against any 
sudden outbreak; but the few who first had talked of 
lynching or other summary vengeance had soon been 
hushed to silence. What was feared among the 
officers was that Graice had been told by some of the 


FOET FRAYNE. 


199 


guard that the Indians were determined to have his 
scalp, and that the soldiery so despised him that he 
could not rely upon them to defend him. Sergeant 
Grafton was confident that Graice hoped in some 
way, by connivance, perhaps, of members of the 
guard, to slip out of the building and take refuge 
among the outlaws at the groggery across the stream. 
Having killed an Indian he had at least some little 
claim, according to their theory, to a frontierman’s 
respect. 

Returning to the guardhouse, as he had promised 
Will, Malcolm Leale was in nowise surprised at 
Grafton’s anxiety, and even less to learn that Graice 
had begged to be allowed to have speech with his 
captain. 

It was a ghastly face that peered out from the dim 
interior of the little prison in answer to the officer’s 
summons. At sound of footsteps on the creaking 
stairway Graice had apparently hidden in the depths 
of the room, and only slowly came forward at the 
sound of the commanding voice he knew. Hangdog 
and drink-sodden as was his look, there was some 
lingering, some revival, perhaps, of the old defiant, 
disdainful manner he had shown to almost every man 
at Frayne. Respect his captain as even such as he 
was forced to do, look up to him now as possibly his 
only hope and salvation, there was yet to his clouded 
intellect some warrant for a vague sentiment of su- 
periority. Outcast, ingrate, drunkard, murderer 
though he was, he. Private Tom Graice, born Royle 
Farrar, was legal owner of all that his captain held 


200 


FORT FRAYNE. 


fairest, dearest, most precious in all the world. 
Leale’s love for Helen Daunton was something the 
whole garrison had seen, and seen with hearty sym- 
pathy. It would be something to teach this proud 
and honored officer that he, the despised and crim- 
inal tough, was, after all, a man to be envied as the 
husband of the woman his captain could now only 
vainly and hopelessly love. It was his plan to bar- 
gain with him, to invoke his aid, to tempt the honor 
of a soldier and a gentleman, but for a moment, at 
sight of that stern, sad face, he stood abashed. 

‘‘You wished to see me,” said Leale, “ and I will 
hear you now.” 

“ I’ve got that to say I want no other man to 
know,” was the reply after an interval of a few sec- 
onds, “ and I want your word of honor that you will 
hold it — sacred.” 

“I decline any promise whatever. What do you 
wish to say?” 

“Well, what I have to tell you interests you more 
than any .man on earth. Captain Leale. I’m in hell 
here — I’m at your mercy, perhaps. My life is 
threatened by these hounds, because by accident that 
knife went into that blind fool’s vitals. It was only 
self-defense. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” 

“No. I was the object, I clearly understand,” 
said Leale, “goon.” 

“Well, it’s as man to man I want to speak. You 
know I never meant to harm him. You can give me 
a chance for justice, for life, and I — I can make it 
worth your while.” 


FORT FRAYNE. 


201 


‘'That will do,” was the stern response. “ 'No more 
on that head. What else have you to ask or say? ” 
“Listen one minute,” pleaded the prisoner. 
“They’d kill me here if they could get me, quick 
enough — Indians or troopers either. I must be 
helped away. I know your secret. You love my 
wife. Help me out of this — here — this night, and 
neither she nor you will ever — ” 

“Silence, you hound! Slink back to your blanket 
where you belong. I thank God my friend, your 
father, never lived to know the depths of your dis- 
grace! Not a word!” he forbade, with uplifted 
hand, as the miserable fellow strove once more to 
make himself heard. “ For the sake of the name to 
which you have brought only shame, you shall be 
protected against Indian vengeance, but who shall 
defend you against yourself? I will hear no more 
from you. To-morrow you may see your colonel, if 
that will do you any good, but if you have one atom, 
of decency left, tell no man living that you areRoyle 
Farrar,” and with that, raging at heart, yet cold 
and stern, the officer, heedless of further frantic 
pleas, turned and left the spot. 

But at the porch the captain turned again. 
Wind and snow were driving across his path. The 
sentries at the front and flank of the guardhouse, 
muffied to their very eyes, staggered against the force 
of the gale. It seemed cruelty to keep honest men 
on post a night so wild as that for no other reason 
than to protect the life of a man so criminal. The 
members of the guard who had resumed their lounge 


202 


FORT FRAYNE. 


around the red-hot stove the moment the captain dis- 
aj^peared, once more sprang to attention as he re- 
entered and called the sergeant to him. 

‘‘ I am tempted to ask the officer of the day to re- 
lieve those sentries, and let Number One come up in- 
to the hallway,” said he. ‘‘ I believe that, with the 
watch we have on the Indians, there is no possibility 
of an outbreak on their part.” 

‘‘There isn’t, sir,” was the sergeant’s prompt re- 
ply. “ But every man in the garrison knows by this 
time that it was the captain that blackguard aimed 
to kill, and it is not the Indians alone that would do 
him if they could. I find that, whenever I have had 
to leave the guardhouse, some of the men have talked 
loud, for him to hear, swearing that he would be 
taken out and hanged at daybreak. Others want to 
tempt him to try to escape, so that they can pursue 
him over to town and hammer him into a jelly there. 
The tower is the only place where he can be unmolest- 
ed, sir. I couldn ’t guarantee his safety from some kind 
of assault, even if I had him right here in the guard- 
room.” 

And just then a corporal came from the little gffice. 

“Sergeant, its 10:25. Shall I form my relief?” 

The sergeant nodded assent. ‘ ‘ I’ll inspect it in 
the guardroom,” said he, and, as Leale turned shortly 
away, intending to go in search of the officer of the 
day, and the sergeant opened the door to let him out, 
Graice could be heard on the upper floor, savagely 
kicking again at his bars. 

“That man has more gall than any man I ever 


FORT FRAYNE. 


203 


met, sir,” said Grafton. He’s kicking because we 
refused to send to the barracks for his share of the 
Christmas cigars.” 

‘‘ Did you search him before he was sent up there? ” 
asked Leale. ‘‘ Has he matches or tobacco? ” 

‘‘Nothing I could find, sir, but other and sharper 
men have been confined there, and I’m told that 
somewhere under the floor or inside the walls they’ve 
hidden things and he’s hand in glove with all the 
toughs of the garrison.” 

“Very well. I’ll notify Captain Harwell, ” said 
Leale, briefly, “and he will attend to it,” and he 
left the building on this quest, just as the second re- 
lief came tramping out into the storm, leaving the 
guardhouse, its few minor prisoners on the lower 
floor, and that one execrated criminal, his old colonel’s 
first born and once-beloved son, cursing at his cap- 
tors in the tower, all to the care of the members of a 
single relief; and the sentry on Number One set up 
his watch-cry against the howl of the wind, and no 
one a dozen yards away could have heard, nor did it 
pass around the chain of sentries, nor was there 
other attempt to call off the hour that memorable 
night. For long days after men recalled the fact 
that the last hour called from under the old guard- 
house porch was half-past ten o’clock. 

Meantime, having had two dances with his now 
pleading and repentant sweetheart and having been 
cajoled into at least partial forgiveness. Will Farrar 
had sought his colonel to say that he really ought 
now to return to his guard at least for a little time. 


204 


FORT FRAYNE. 


but Fenton, conscious of the shadow that had over- 
spread the garrison earlier in the evening, seemed 
bent on being joviality itself. He bade the boy re- 
turn to his immediate conimanding officer and obtain 
her consent before again coming to him, and Kitty 
flatly refused. She was dancing with Martin at the 
moment, and that left Will to his own devices, and, 
after a fond word or two from his mother, he had 
stepped back of the seat occupied by her little circle 
of chosen friends, and was standing watching the 
animated scene before him. Close at hand, not a 
dozen feet away, stood Helen Daunton, partially 
screened from observation of the dancers. It was at 
this moment that Leale again came striding in, 
glanced quickly around until he caught Will’s eye, 
and the young officer promptly joined him. 

“Is Farwell here? ” he asked. 

“ He came in a moment ago. Yonder he is now, 
sir,” answered Will, indicating by a nod the figure 
of the officer of the day in conversation with some 
one of the guests at the other end of the room. 

“Then ask him if he will join me in five minutes 
at the guardhouse. I need to see him,” said Leale, 
and the youngster sped promptly on his mission. 

The music had just sounded the signal for the 
forming of the sets for the lancers, and with 
soldierly promptitude, the officers, with their part- 
ners, began taking their positions. Floor managers 
have little labor at a garrison hop. Ellis Farrar, 
who had reappeared upon the arm of Captain Vin- 
ton, mutely bowed her head and accepted Ormsby’s 


FOKT FEAYNE. 


205 


hand, as he led heropposite Will and his now radiant 
Kitty, and Malcolm Leale, halting at the screened 
threshold before taking his departure, turned for one 
long look at Helen Daunton’s face. Some intense 
fascination had drawn her once more to the east 
window, and there, as the dancers formed, alone, 
almost unnoticed, she slowly turned and her eyes met 
his. One last, long, intense gaze and, in one impulsive 
movement, as though he read in her glorious eyes 
the kindling light of a love that matched his own, 
he would have sprung to her side, but, with sudden 
recollection of the barrier between them, he gathered 
himself, lifted his hand in gesture of farewell, and 
turned abruptly away. The music crashed into the 
opening bars of the lancers and the dance began. 

For a moment longer Helen stood there. Again 
that powerful fascination seemed to lure her to draw 
aside the curtain and gaze forth across the white ex- 
panse of the parade, to where the guarded prison 
stood within whose walls was caged the savage 
creature whose life was linked so closely with those 
of many there besides her own. Then the thought 
of that other — the man whose love, all unwittingly, 
she had won, and the fear that, glancing back, he 
might see her shadow as when he came — caused her 
to draw hastily away. In all that gay and animated 
scene, as once more she faced the merry throng, 
Helen Daunton stood alone. The dance went 
blithely on. Chat and laughter and the gliding, 
rhythmic steps of many feet mingled with the 
spirited music of Fort Frayne’s capital orchestra. 


206 


FORT FRAYXE. 


Even Mrs. Farrar’s sweet face, so long shadowed by 
sorrow, beamed with the reflected light of the glad- 
ness that shone on many another. Longing to be 
alone with her misery, Helen turned to seek the se- 
clusion of the dressing room, and had almost reached 
its threshold, when over or through the strains of 
the lancers and the howl of the wind without, there 
came some strange sound that gave her pause. 

Somewhere out upon the parade she heard the dis- 
tant, muflled crack of the cavalry carbine. Another 
— another, farther away, and then, mingling with 
them, hoarse, low murmur as of many voices and of 
commands indistinguishable through the gale. 
Louder grew the clamor, nearer came the sounds; 
then the added rush of many feet in the adjoining 
barracks of “K” Troop, the quick, stirring peal of 
trumpet, sounding some unfamiliar call. Over- 
strained and excited as were her nerves, fearing for 
him against whom the wrath of the garrison was 
roused, she could only connect the sounds of alarm 
and confusion with him and his hapless fate. She 
started forward to call the colonel’s attention, for 
among the dancers the sound was still unheard. 
Again the shots and shouts, the rush of hurrying 
feet on the broad veranda without. Again and 
nearer, quick and imperative, the thrilling trumpet 
call. Then, close at hand the loud bang of the sen- 
try’s carbine and the stentorian shout of ‘‘Fire!” 
And then, just as the music abruptly ceased in re- 
sponse to the colonel’s signal, bursting in at the 
door, followed by a couple of troopers, came Rorke, 


FORT FRAYNF. 


207 


rushing for a ladder that had been in use during the 
day. 

<‘It’s that madman, Graice, Sorr!” he cried in 
answer to the look in his commander’s face. ‘‘ He’s 
fired the tower and he’s burning to death.” 

Springing to the window, Helen Daunton dashed 
aside the curtain, and, all one glare of flame, the 
guardhouse burst upon the view. A black ladder, 
silhouetted against the blaze, was being raised at the 
instant the curtain fell from her nerveless hand. 
Will seized his cap , made one leap to the door, de- 
spite Kitty’s frantic effort to seize him; then, missing 
his sabre, whirled about and rushed from point to 
point in search of it. Divining his object, the girl 
threw herself in front of the settee, behind which 
she had concealed it, and, when he sought to reach 
around her, desperately, determinedly fought him 
off. Seizing a cap, the colonel vanished into the 
night. Throwing over his shoulders the first mantle 
he could lay his hands on — which happened to be 
Lucretia’s — Wayne followed his leader. Will, de- 
layed and maddened, only succeeded in capturing his 
sabre by forcibly lifting Kitty out of the way; then 
he sprang to the doorway to join the men hurrying 
from distant points to the scene. Ormsby, too, had 
rushed after the colonel, and only women were left 
upon the floor. These, horror-stricken, yet fasci- 
nated, had gathered about the eastward window, 
where Helen Daunton crouched, unable to look again 
upon the frightful spectacle. It was Ellis who 


208 


FORT FRAYNF. 


hurled aside the curtain, just as old Rorke, re-enter- 
ing, sprang to the middle of the hall. 

“Come away, ma’am! For the love of God, Miss, 
stand clear of that window! The poor divil’s climbed 
to the top, and the cannon powdher’s in the tower.” 

With a moan of despair, Helen burst through the 
group and toward the open doorway, as though she 
herself would hie to the rescue. Rorke, with one 
leap, regained the threshold, and thrust her back. 

“My God, can no one save him?” she cried. 

“Save him, ma’am! It’s sure death to the man 
that dares to try it. Any moment it may blow up. 
They’re rushing clear of it now. The colonel’s 
ordered them all back. No! God of hivvin, some 
one’s climbing the ladder now! It’s Captain Leale! 
Oh, don’t let him, men! dhrive him back! Oh, what 
use is it? Did man ever live that could turn 
Malcolm Leale from the duty he deemed his own?” 
And away rushed poor Terry. Ellis sprang to 
her mother’s side just as, to the accompaniment 
of a shriek from Kitty’s lips, there came a dull roar, 
followed by a sudden thud and crash of falling tim- 
bers, and the hoarse shouts of excited men. An in- 
stant later, Ormsby, nearly breathless, leaped in at 
the door. 

“They’ll have to bring him in here. Leale would 
have saved him if he hadn’t jumped. Ellis, your 
mother must not see his face. Take her into the 
dressing room.” 

“And why?” cried Ellis. “The lives of our best 
and bravest have been risked to save that worthless 


FORT FRAYNE. 


209 


life? This is no place for him. He shall not be 
brought here.” 

‘‘Hush,” said Ormsby, in a low, intense tone. 
“In God’s name, Ellis, hush! The man on that 
fitter is your mother’s son — your own brother — Royle 
Farrar. That is the secret I was guarding for Helen 
Daunton — your brother’s wife.” 

A moment later as the women gathered about Mrs. 
Farrar, obedient to Ormsby’s murmured injunction 
to keep her from seeing the face of the dying man, 
lest it prove too severe a shock to her weakened 
heart, the men came solemnly, bearing a stretcher 
on which lay the blanket-covered form, followed by 
a silent group of officers. The doctor simply 
touched the wrist, gave one glance into the scorched 
and blistered face, shook his head, and drew the 
blanket. Kitty, ^sobbing, clung to Willy’s arm, 
their quarrel forgotten. Helen, who had thrown 
herself almost hysterically upon her knees at the 
stretcher’s side, turned in added terror at the words 
of the colonel, “Another patient, doctor,” for at the 
instant, supported by Wayne and others, Malcolm 
Leale was led within the doorway, a handkerchief 
pressed to his eyes. 

“lie got the full flash of that explosion in his 
face,” murmured the old soldier, as the doctor met 
them. Then, in the solemn presence of death, in 
the hush and silence of the throng, Mrs. Farrar 
stepped forward and laid her white hand gently, rev- 
erently upon the lifeless breast. 

“Reckless and hardened he may have been,” she 


210 


FORT FRAYNE. 


said, ‘‘but somewhere — somewhere, I know a 
mother’s heart is yearning over him and a mother’s 
lips are praying for the boy she loves.” 

And so it happened that only one or two could 
hear the single, whispered word with which the doc- 
tor turned to his commander after one brief look into 
Malcolm’s eyes. 

“Blind!” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Jack Ormsby did not go East by the first train 
after the Christmas ball, as had been his purpose, but 
he saw no more of the lady of his love. Late that 
dreadful night, rousing for a few moments from the 
stupor into which she had been thrown by the an- 
nouncement that it was her own brother who lay 
there downstricken in the midst of his career of crime 
and shame, Ellis Farrar, little by little, realized the 
whole miserable truth — that he, her brother, was the 
man who had wrecked Helen Daunton’s life — Helen, 
who to spare that invalid mother an added sorrow, 
had hidden from her the name of the man whose 
brutal blows and curses had rewarded her love. 
More than all did Ellis realize that the lover, whose 
loyalty and devotion she herself had repaid with 
scorn and contempt, had suffered her words in silence 
rather than betray another woman’s confidence and 
thereby divulge a truth that would overwhelm with 
shame all who bore the name of Farrar. Then it 
was that, hysterically weeping, she broke down utterly 
and before the setting of another sun the mother and 
all the household learned from her lips that it was all 
that was left of Royle Farrar that now lay there, 
cold and stiff and still in that bare, echoing ward of 
the old hospital, awaiting the last volleys and the 
solemn trumpet salutation to the soldier dead. 

Only a corporal’s guard formed the firing party, 

311 


212 EORT FRAYNE. 

when, just before sundown, the remains of “ Private 
Graice ” were laid in the bleak, snow-covered ceme- 
tery out on the rolling prairie, but more than a dozen 
men in the crowded garrison knew by that time that 
the folds of the flag were draped over the mortal 
remains of a colonel’s son. 

It was an awe-stricken group that gathered about 
the hospital when the bearers came forth with their 
burden and placed it in the waiting ambulance, and 
the firing squad presented arms. The idea of the 
recreant — the would-be murderer, Tom Graice — being 
buried with military honors had not occurred to the 
garrison as a possibility. Yet here was the little 
escort, here were the trumpeters, (the band had been 
mercifully excused), here were pall bearers from his 
troop instead of from among the garrison prisoners, 
as might have been ruled when one of their number 
died; here were old Terry Rorke, and some of the 
senior sergeants of the regiment ; here, indeed, with 
pallid face was young Lieutenant Farrar, with him 
Mr. Ormsby, the adjutant, quartermaster, the sur- 
geon, and one or two veteran captains. Major Wayne, 
and even Colonel Fenton himself! Who ever heard 
of such an array as that attending the obsequies of a' 
criminal? Fort Frayne was mystified and talked of 
it for hours, but the story told itself before tattoo 
and the mystery was done. 

They had buried the first born of the colonel 
whoifl all men loved and honored and mourned, and 
old Fenton had himself decided that, as Graice had 
never yet been tried and convicted, and could never 


FORT FRAYNE. 


213 


appear before an earthly tribunal, he must be con- 
sidered as innocent, and so issued the order that no 
military honor should be denied, except the band. 
It was too bitterly cold for them to attempt to play, 
for the valves of the instruments would freeze at 
once, and it was deemed best that no sound of the 
dirge music should reach the ears of Marjorie Farrar. 
Neither she nor Ellis knew when the funeral took 
place — Mrs. Farrar learning only on the following 
day, Ellis not until weeks thereafter, for, as a result 
of all the long, gradual strain, culminating in the 
shock of that tragic night, and the realization of the 
wrong she had done the honest man who had so 
loved her, her strength gave way, and brain fever 
and delirium supervened. In the week that followed 
that hapless holiday, Ellis hovered on the border- 
land ’twixt life and death, and no man could say 
that the fatal Christmastide might not claim still 
another of the Farrars. 

And that week was one of woe to poor Jack Ormsby. 
He haunted the neighborhood of the Farrars; he 
hung about the gateway, importuning the doctor, the 
colonel, Kitty, Will — anybody — for tidings of the 
girl he loved. His fine, alert, intelligent face was 
clouded with the dread and sorrow that overcame him. 
He could not see Mrs. Farrar — she rarely moved 
from her stricken daughter’s side — but twice he 
saw and talked with Helen, and once, with her, 
walked out to visit the new-made grave. All that week 
the shadows cast by the glare of the guard-house flames 
seemed to wrap Fort Frayne in gloom, and people 


214 


FOET FEAYNE. 


gazed upon the black ruins only with a shudder. 
The Indians, ever superstitious, had professed to see 
the hand of the Great Spirit in the clouds, pointing 
remorselessly at the spot, and warning them of fur- 
ther wrath to come, as a consequence of the un- 
avenged murder of a chieftain’s son. Cowboys and 
‘‘hustlers,” angered against the garrison because it 
had interposed between them and their purposed 
punishment of Big Road’s band, saw here a capi- 
tal opportunity of embroiling the red men with 
their white defenders. By dozens, in shivering 
silence, wrapped in their blankets and seated on 
their scraggy ponies, the warriors had looked on at 
the solemn little ceremony, and within another day 
by scores the cowboys and settlers were spreading 
the story that the white chief had buried Tom 
Graice, with all the honors of war despite his 
crimes and misdemeanors, simply because he had 
killed the son of an Indian chief — the son of the 
chief whose people killed the colonel of the Twelfth 
when he attacked the fleeing village on the Mini Pusa 
three long years before. It was the white soldiers’ 
way of taunting the red man. It was proof of his 
real feeling toward the Indian. 

“Look out for yourself. Big Road!” said these 
astute, frontier statesmen; “ Chief Fenton and his sol- 
diers have only lured you here within range of their 
walls, that they may the more readily swoop upon you 
some bitter morning, and put you and your warriors, 
your women and children to the sword.” In the in- 
tense cold of the three days that succeeded the blizzard, 


FOET FEAYNE. 


215 


there was no interchange of visits, so to speak, be- 
tween the fort and the Indian village, but the emis- 
saries of'Ben Thorpe had been busily at work. Big 
Road and his warriors had been bidden to attend the 
stately funeral of their kinsman and friend. Crow 
Knife, on the morning after Christmas, and had 
flocked to the scene and lifted up their mournful 
chant when the volleys flashed and the crowd of at- 
tendant soldiers bowed their heads in mingled hom- 
age and sorrow. That was as it should be, but what 
did it mean that his slayer should then be accorded 
equal honors — aye, that more officers — chiefs — were 
present at Graice’s grave than when the son of a 
Brule warrior was laid to rest? This they could not 
fathom, and this, despite the strained relations that 
had resulted in the death of Laramie Pete, the cow- 
boy emissaries proved eager to explain in their own 
way and to explain to attentive ears. 

‘‘Old Fenton thought he’d done me when he 
moved that bloody band up here to the fort,” said 
the cowboy king to his admiring audience, over at 
the saloon across the Platte. “ If I don’t pay him 
off with compound interest within the month and 
make him wish he hadn’t monkeyed with my business, 
call me a coyote. He and the stuck-up gang he 
heads will wish to God they’d left those Indians 
where they were.” 

And five days after Christmas Colonel Fenton 
heard of goings on within the village that gave him 
cause to summon his adjutant and officer of the day, 
to double his sentries on every front, and to realize 


216 


FORT FRAYNE. 


how much in these few years he had learned to lean 
for counsel and support on Malcolm Leale, for now 
the colonel was forbidden, as was everybody else, to 
see him, even for a moment. Not only had the flash 
of the explosion wrecked his eyesight, but there was 
grave reason to fear that he had inhaled the flame. 
Captain Leale was suffering torment, yet bearing his 
burden without a moan. 

A troubled man was the veteran post surgeon all 
that woeful week. Ellis Farrar, delirious in burning 
fever, Malcolm Leale prostrate on a bed of pain, 
blind, and breathing only in agonized gasps; Mrs. 
Farrar looking so fragile and weak that it seemed 
as though a breath might blow away the feeble 
flicker of her life; others of the women more or less 
overcome and shocked by the events of the last few 
days, and now, right in the midst of it all, came in- 
dications of trouble in the Indian village up the 
stream — powwowing, speechmaking, and dancing by 
night, runners flitting to and from the Big Horn, 
messengers darting in from other tribes — and, when 
Fenton sent for Big Road to come into the office and 
explain the chief temporized, expressed himself as 
suspicious of some plot to separate him from his peo- 
ple and to hold him as hostage at the fort. If Col- 
onel Fenton desired to talk let Colonel Fenton come 
to the council lodge at the village but leave his sol- 
diers behind. Big Road’s old men had seen visions 
and had heard warnings; his medicine chiefs had been 
signaled by the Great Spirit; his young men were 


FORT FRAYNE. 


217 


excited and alarmed; his women were weeping and 
gathering their children to their knees. If the 
white chief meant peace and friendship, let him 
show it by coming to his lodge with gifts in his 
hands, instead of guns. He, the white chief, was 
rich, and his horses and his young men were fat and 
strong. Big Road was poor and his people were 
hungry and cold; his ponies dying. Fenton, indeed, 
would have gone with only his adjutant and inter- 
preter and a single orderly but for the warning of a 
Brule girl, who had left her people a few years be- 
fore to follow a soldier lover, and had made her 
home among the whites, a patient, sorrowing woman, 
ever since his untimely death. The Amorys had pro- 
vided for her in every way, for the soldier was one 
of the captain’s troop, and she had grown deeply 
attached to them, even though now occasionally vis- 
iting her kindred. 

It was at luncheon, talking to his wife, that Amory 
told of Colonel Fenton’s purpose of riding over to 
the village that very afternoon, and the story was re- 
peated in the kitchen, where it reached the ears of 
the Indian girl. In an instant she had darted out of 
the house and gone to the colonel’s, where she fright- 
ened Lucretia out of her seven senses with the first 
words she uttered: ‘‘ They kill the colonel! He no 
go!” Luckily, Wayne was at hand to soothe, sup- 
port and explain. Other officers were sent for, and, 
despite Fenton’s pooh-poohing, so strong were their 
arguments that at two o’clock a messenger was dis- 
patched to Big Road’s bailiwick to tell him the 


218 


FOET FEAYNE. 


colonel had heard that which made him say to the 
Indian chief that now the only way in which he 
would meet him would be at the adjutant’s office, as 
originally proposed, or else alone and unarmed mid- 
way between the fort and the village, no soldiers or 
warriors being allowed to approach within two hun- 
dred yards, unless, indeed. Big Road himself should 
propose an adj utant for each. If this was satisfactory, 
let the time be set for three o’clock and Fenton 
would be there. The half-breed messenger came back 
in half an hour. Big Road would send his answer 
by a squaw, ’ ’ and that was Big Road’s way of say- 
ing that the white chief was an old woman. Utterly 
forgetful now of the service Fenton had rendered his 
people and him, duped by the visions of his medi- 
cine men, and fuddled with the liquor lavished on 
him by the cowboys. Big Road was hot for war. 

No squaw came; no conference took place. Dark- 
ness was settling down upon the post when at last 
the westward sentries reported a small party of In- 
dians riding out from the village toward Fort Frayne. 
The trumpeters were just scattering after sounding 
retreat, when the officer of the day conveyed the 
news to Fenton, and in two minutes an officer, with 
a dozen men, trotted out from the stables of Troop 
K” and four hundred yards beyond the sentry post 
signaled to the advancing warriors: Halt! ” 

There were ten in the party, and Big Road was not 
among them. The officers, returning from stables 
and retreat roll call, had gathered about the colonel 
on the westward bluff, and field glasses were brought 


FORT FRAYNE. 


219 


to bear on the opposing parties, now only dimly vis- 
ible in the gloaming. Over at the barracks the men 
were still gathered about their respective parades, 
despite the fact that supj)er was ready and they as 
ready for supper. All over the garrison had gone the 
rumor of Big Road’s hostile and defiant message, and 
the troops w^ere wrathful at the indignity put upon 
their colonel. Some of them had stepped inside the 
quarters and were quietly examining their belts and 
equipments, and counting the cartridges in their 
boxes. Ormsby, sharing the suppressed excitement, 
had hastened out to join his friends of the Twelfth, 
his nerves tingling again at the thought of the pos- 
sibility of a skirmish, and now he stood with Fenton 
close at hand, waiting eagerly for the first develop- 
ments. 

But little time was wasted. There was a brief par- 
ley between the lieutenant with the troopers and a 
formidable-looking Indian who seemed to lead the 
others. Then the officer turned and sent a man gal- 
loping back to the post. In four minutes he was in 
the colonel’s presence, dismounted, and making his 
report. 

‘‘Big Road’s compliments — I mean, the lieu- 
tenant’s compliments, sir — and Big Road sends his 
delegation for three wagonloads of meat, flour, 
sugar, and coffee, sir, and says as the colonel hasn’t 
come to see him, he’s going to move.” 

The colonel laughed — the first laugh since Christ- 
mas, somebody remarked at the time. “Are you 
sure there’s no mistake, Fallon? ” he asked the 
messenger. 


220 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘‘That’s what the lieutenant asked the Indians, 
sir, but we have two of “L ” Troop with us — what’s 
left of ’em— one Brule and t’other Ogallalla, and 
they both translate it the same way, and Bat is with 
us, too, sir; and he says it’s like Big Road when 
he gets liquor in him. He thinks he’s lord of the 
earth. Bat says he’s drunk now, and believes the 
colonel will be glad to do as he demands for fear 
of him.” 

“Well, who brought the message? Who’s that 
big buck in the lead there?” 

“That’s One-Eyed Bull, sir — him that was nursed 
in the hospital here after the fight three years ago.” 

“Bull? He ought to know better than to bring 
any such message,” said Fenton, reflectively. “ I 
presume he dare not refuse, however. Mr. Ad- 
jutant, mount Fallon’s horse, gallop out there, and 
tell Bull to tell Big Road to go to the devil. That’s 
all on that head. Captain Farwell, as soon as your 
men have had supper, let them saddle and be ready 
for night work. Orderly, have my horse sent up in 
half an hour. That’s all for the present, gentlemen. 
Come, Jack — Lou’s waiting dinner for us.” 

It was the first time that any one had seen Fenton 
mad, as Amory put it, when the group broke up. 
“Either Big Road will come down off that high 
liorse or the old man will snatch him, and within 
the next few hours, too. Ormsby brings us luck. 
He never comes out here that we don’t have a shindy 
of some kind,” 


FORT FRAYNE. 


221 


More than one officer was thinking of this remark 
of Amory’s as they scattered to their homes. Many a 
dinner was kept waiting and many a housewife had 
to be placated when the lord and master hurried in, 
and tongues that were primed with wifely reproof 
were stilled by the tidings that quickly spread from 
door to door. Big Road had made an insolent de- 
mand, and coupled with it a defiant message. Big 
Road was drunk and had threatened to move with 
his village, and then it would become the duty of 
the Twelfth to surround and herd him back. Under 
the stipulation of a late treaty, he was allowed for 
his winter range only the south bank of the Platte, 
from Frayne to the breaks of the Medicine Bow. If 
he crossed the Platte and struck out for the Big 
Horn, he invaded the cattle lands and laid himself 
open to attack from the ‘‘hustlers.” If he dove into 
the mountain range to the south, he left his reserva- 
tion and forfeited the rations and supplies which 
the agent at Fetterman Bend was bound to issue at 
regular intervals. He had quarreled with the agent 
and moved his village up stream to within ten miles 
of Frayne — which he had a right to do. He had 
quarreled with, and on good grounds, the cowboys, 
and then taken under the wing of Uncle Sam for 
safety, and now he proposed quarreling with his 
benefactors and launching out on forbidden territory, 
and that meant business for all at Frayne. 

But One-eyed Bull was no truculent warrior. He 
had delivered his message in accordance with his 
chief’s demands, and in far more civil tone and terms 


222 


i’OET i'RAYNB. 


than it was consigned to him; then had waited in 
dignified silence, confronting the somewhat fiippant 
blue coats from the fort, refusing to make any re- 
sponse to the jocularity and ridicule in which some 
of their number indulged, or to enter into any dis- 
cussion with Bat or the two Indian soldiers as to the 
probable inspiration of Big Road’s bombast. Well 
enough he realized when the adjutant arrived upon 
the scene that the ‘‘bluff” had totally failed, and 
before a word was spoken read contemptuous refusal 
in the young officer’s face. They were indeed cold 
and hungry over in the village, and he himself and 
the warriors with him would have been glad of a 
feast on army rations. Nor were the warriors at all 
satisfied with the judgment and discretion of their 
chief, but one and all the Indians were now im- 
bued with the warning of their medicine men, and 
expected nothing less than some sudden act of hos- 
tility on the soldiers’ part. If there ever was a time 
in Big Road’s history when a clear head and cool 
brain were needed, it was now, just when he had 
succeeded in getting drunk, and well had the cow- 
boys reasoned. While some of the number lured 
the chief to the banks of the Platte and plied him 
with lies and whiskey, others were scurrying up and 
down the valley, routing out the ranchmen, settlers, 
and “ hustlers,” and warning them to be in readiness 
to gather at the given signal, for there was no tell- 
ing what would be the first consequence of their 
diplomacy. If Big Road simply broke camp and 
started with his whole village in the dead of night 


FORT FRAYNE. 


223 


in hopes of leading the soldiers a stern chase to the 
Big Horn, they could stumble in his way, impede 
his fight, and bring on a row in which, with vastly 
superior numbers, they could at least rob the red 
men of their pony herd. That would be part satis- 
faction for the death of Laramie Pete. Then, when 
the soldiers came up, they could sail in after them 
and claim such spoil as was worth having and all the 
credit of having brought the chief to bay. If, on 
the other hand. Big Road became so crazed with 
their fire-water as to go down and beard the lion in 
his den and defy the cavalry at the fort, then there 
might be a pretty scrimmage right over on the flats 
when the colonel ordered the chief’s arrest, and 
when the soldiers were tackling the warriors in the 
open and having a nip-and-tuck fight of it the 
frontiersmen could surround the village and help 
themselves. There would be only old men and 
women and children to defend it. There was gloom, 
therefore, in Bull’s sole remaining optic as he re- 
ceived in majestic silence the adjutant’s indignant 
rendering of the colonel’s message, and, motioning 
to his blanketed braves to follow, he turned about 
and rode away. 

“What do you think they’ll do?” was the eager 
question asked the adjutant on his return to the 
post. “ Is he mad enough to mean fight? ” 

“He is, if he doesn’t get any drunker,” was the 
answer. ‘ ‘ More whiskey would be the surest way of 
settling the question now, but it would rob us of the 


224 


FORT FRAYNE. 


pleasure of knocking him out — and be damned to 
him for spoiling my dinner!” 

At eight o’clock that night, with one platoon in 
dispersed order well to the front, and others in re- 
serve, while the garrison of Fort Frayne stood by 
their arms within the fort. Captain Farwell’s troop 
moved slowly up the dark valley, along the snow- 
covered flats, out beyond the point where the delega- 
tion was met at dusk and held at bay, and, though 
the stars were glinting in the frosty sky and not a 
breath of air was stirring, and the night was still as 
solitude itself, not a whisper could be heard from 
the direction of the village, not a spark of fire could 
be seen. Over against them on the northern shore 
were sounds at times as of rapid hoof beats, muffled 
by the snow. Half a mile out a horseman loomed 
up at the front, and in a moment was merged in the 
advancing line. 

‘‘What is it, sergeant? What news have you?” 
asked the young platoon commander. 

“They’re off, sir! A whole gang of old folks and 
women on ponies and travois has started across the 
Platte. The warriors are all there yet. You’ll hear 
Big Road shouting in a minute. He’s fighting full 
and is urging on some deviltry — I can’t make out 
what, but from all we can understand of it he wants 
to lead a rush through the stables to capture or kill the 
horses. He’s just drunk enough to try, but the 
others won’t let him. They declare they won’t fol- 
low him. They know too much. What they want 
to do is to get out and reach Trooper Creek to-night, 
I reckon.” 


FOET FEAYNE. 


225 


Ride back, then, and let the captain know. Who 
else are out at the front on watch?” 

‘‘Only Rorke and two or three of the Indian troop, 
sir.* They are taking care of themselves, though.” 

And then for a moment the forward movement 
ceased. “Halt! Halt!” were the low-toned orders 
of the non-commissioned officers dispersed along the 
line, and, under the twinkling stars, dim, ghostly, 
and silent, the extended rank of riders seemed as one 
man to rein in and wait. Here and there an impa- 
tient charger began to paw the snow, and others 
sniffed suspiciously and cocked their pointed ears in 
the direction of the unseen village.* Some young 
troopers, tremulous with excitement and cold com- 
bined, began to slap their fur-gloved hands on breast 
or thigh and had to be sternly called to order. Pres- 
ently a muffled horseman* came riding up from the 
rear, a trumpeter in his tracks. 

“That’s right, Martin. You did well to halt a 
minute. I’ve sent back word to Colonel Fenton. 
He had wired to the agency before we pulled out.” 

“Can’t we turn ’em back without his authority, 
sir?” 

“No; even when we know they mean to cross the 
Platte. But orders will come to-night. The wires 
are working well.” 

“Captain, did you hear what Captain Amory said 
this evening?” asked the youngster, as he edged in 
closer to the elder’s side, “ that Ormsby never came 
out here that we didn’t have a shindy with the 
Sioux?” 


226 


FORT FRAYNE* 


‘‘Yes; but poor Jack is out of the dance this time 
• and can’t be with us, as he was before.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Martin, having some 
vague theory that the illness of Miss Farrar was at 
the bottom of Ormsby’s inability to take part in the 
promised chase. “ I — didn’t suppose anything could 
keep him from taking a hand in soldier service.” 

“Well, that’s j ust it ! Those fellows in the Seventh 
are as punctilious on a point of duty as any man we 
know in the army. Ormsby promised to be back 
Avith his company for some review or ceremony with- 
in this week. He’s got to go. They’ve telegraphed 
to remind him, and he has just time, barring acci- 
dent, to make the trip.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Nine o’clock, ten o’clock of that wintry evening 
came, but no orders. Fenton had reported the situ- 
ation by wire to department headquarters late in the 
afternoon, and had twice sent messages to the agency. 
In answer to these latter came characteristic appeals 
to do nothing to excite or exasperate Big Road, but 
to induce him to remain where he was until he, the 
agent, could come and confer with him, — he’d be 
along the first train in the morning. To this Fenton 
responded that, unless he w^as permitted to go out, 
surround, and arrest him and his principal braves at 
once. Big Road would break camp and be off before 
the rising of another sun. Fenton felt sure of it. 
To this came response that such a course would only 
anger the Indians, who were very sensitive to any- 
thing that looked like coercion, and that until they 
had actually crossed tha Platte no steps such as were 
indicated by Colonel Fenton should be taken. Still, 
they should not be allowed to attempt to cross. 

‘‘Now, how on earth,” said Fenton, “am I to pre- 
vent their doing that without something that looks 
like coercion? If I can’t stop them, I at least won’t 
lose touch,” said he. And so, while the rest of the 
command was held in readiness, Farwell’s troop had 
been dispatched, as we have seen, with orders to ob- 
serve and follow — but not to interfere with the 
movements of the village. Up to ten o’clock, as h© 

, 227 


22b 


POET FEAYNE. 


learned through Indian scouts, only women and chil- 
dren, old men, old ponies, and dogs had been spirited 
away. With them went perhaps half a dozen war- 
riors as guards against night attack from hostile 
white men, but the main body still hung about the 
site of the dismantled village. Big Boad wanted 
more talk with .the cowboys — and more firewater. 

Now was the very time to attempt the arrest since 
none but warriors remained — none but fighting 
braves would suffer if they resisted and opened fire, 
and, all eagerness, Farwell sent back messengers 
explaining the situation and asking from his colonel 
authority to do something. Eleven o’clock came and 
still no orders reached Fenton, either from the gen- 
eral commanding or his chief of staff; no further 
authority from the agency. It looked as though the 
wintry night would be allowed to slip away, and the 
Indians with it, and that meant that more of their 
Christmas holidays would be lost to the Twelfth 
through having to go campaigning in the biting cold. 
Taps sounded at eleven, and Fenton, disgusted, gave 
orders that the command should unsaddle and go to 
barracks, but practically to sleep on their arms. 
Meanwhile luckless Farwell and his fellows would 
have to make a night of it up the Platte, and already 
two poor boys were sent in, numb and more than 
half frozen. 

The waning moon was not yet risen, and the dark- 
ness was intense, but for the glinting of the stars on 
the snowy surface; yet keen-eyed scouts hung close 
to the site of the Indian camp and sharp ears noted 


FORT FRAYNE. 


229 


every sound. -There was a guffaw of derisive 
laughter among the blanketed warriors in answer to 
the faint, far-away sounding of ‘‘lights out.” 

“ Small use to sound ‘ lights out,’ whin it’s lightin’ 
out thim blackguards are doing already,” growled 
old Rorke to his fellow-trooper. “It’s many a 
Christmas they’ve spoiled for me and mine, and now 
they do be drawin’ on the New Year’s party, too. 
It’s in the Big Horn we’ll be against Sunday next, or 
I’m a Jew.” 

“That’s the prettiest country in the world for 
fishin’ and fighting,” was the answer, “but I’ve no 
likin’ for it when the cowld would freeze the soup 
twixt the mug and the mouth. Who’s yon?” he 
broke off suddenly, bringing his’ fur-guarded thumb 
to the hammer of his carbine and indicating with a 
nod of his head a dim, dark shape coming crouching 
toward them through the starlight. 

“Halt, there! ” was Rorke’s gruff, muttered chal- 
lenge, at the instant. “ Rise up, you, and say who 
ye are. Oh, it’s you, is it, Pollywog? Come in 
from under yer head an’ explain what keeps your 
brother night owls yonder — why don’t they start, if 
ever they’re going? ” 

Obedient to the order, given in soldier terms he 
could not use, yet sufficiently understood, an Indian 
scout — an Arapahoe boy — whose big shock head 
seemed twice the size of his lean torso, straightened 
up from his catlike crouch and came swiftly toward 
the two troopers. 


230 


FORT FRAYNE. 


‘‘Big Road going — plenty quick,” he muttered. 
“ Heap whiskey now — Bunco fetch ’um! ” 

“Ah, that’s what kept him, was it? Run hack, 
Clancy, and tell the captain he’s fired up, and I’ll 
creep in closer and see if he’s started.” So saying 
the old trooper doubled up over his huge, moccasined 
feet and, carbine in hand, crept stealthily onward 
toward the point where last the tepees had been seen 
at dusk, Pollywog excitedly shuffling by his side. 
For fifty yards or so nothing could be heard or seen 
in front, then they came upon a dark object kneeling 
under a stunted cottonwood, close to the bank of the 
frozen stream. It was one of the Indian troopers, 
and at Rorke’s muttered summons he raised his hand 
as though to caution silence, and again bent his head 
attentively, 

“Heap whiskey!” was his whispered verdict. 
‘ ‘ Pretty soon fight. Listen ! ” 

There were sounds of turmoil in the Indian ranks 
— harsh, guttural voices and much shuffling about. 
Every now and then the thud of pony hoofs could 
be heard, as the nimble little beasts went scurrying 
over the snow; then muffled shouts across the stream 
in impatient hail and excited answer. One party of 
warriors was evidently on its way, and its rearward 
members were striving to induce the laggards at the 
village to come in. 

“Bedad!” said Rorke;- “John Barleycorn has 
laid some of thim buck blackguards by the heels 
already, and they can’t rouse ’em up. Go you in 
there, Pollywog. They won’t see you this night. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


231 


There isn’t one in that gang could tell a ’Rappahoe 
from a raw recruit with six fingers av Bunco Jim’s 
jig wather in him. G’wan in, boy. Harass the 
inemy all ye can, without bringin’ on a general en- 
gagement — by which I mane any kind av a fight 
that’s too big for a corporal. Did ye find the cap- 
tain? ” he asked, turning suddenly to Clancy, who 
came steadily up from the rear. 

, “Whist! he’s right here, an’ Mr. Ormsby with 
him.” 

Surely enough, crunching through the snow, 
making as little noise as they could, yet stumbling 
painfully at times, two burly forms could be seen 
creeping toward them, and presently Farwell was 
near enough to whisper an inquiry as to how far the 
village was ahead. 

“Not fifty yards, sorr,” said Rorke. “ But you 
needn’t fear to wake ’em. There’s only wan 
word what’s left of Big Road’s people can under- 
stand now and that’s whiskey. It’s my belief there’s 
a dozen bucks over there too drunk to ride, and 
they’ve sent all the travois ahead and don’t know how 
to lug ’em along. They haven’t all the plainscraft 
in the world, sorr, and the Twelfth could give ’em a 
line or two of lesson on that score.” 

“Damn the luck!” said Farwell, heartily. “My 
orders are not to interfere or to follow until they’re 
all across the Platte. How many are holding back 
there, corporal? ” 

“ Faith, I don’t know, sorr, but ivery man that’s 


232 


FORT FEAYNE. 


left sees double, and I’ve told Pollywog to count 
’em. How far back are the men, sorr? ” 

‘‘ They’re close at hand now. We moved forward 
after getting your message. Listen to those beg- 
gars! ” 

Through the still night a wild, mournful howl 
was uplifted from the direction of the village. A 
cross betune the yelp of a coyote and the howl of a 
keener,” said Rorke. “Bedad, they may talk Sioux 
when they’re sober, but Irish is the universal 
language when they’re drunk. Hark til ’em now.” 
Another howl went up. Somebody was making a 
speech, and presently, as the orator warmed to his 
subject, the sonorous tones rang out over the frozen 
valley and came thundering back from the echoing 
bluffs. 

‘^That’s Big Road himself,” muttered Terry. 
‘‘ He’s too crooked to-night to see his own way, but 
he can steer the others all the same. What’s he say- 
ing, Bismarck? ” he inquired of the silent Indian 
trooper. 

‘‘He says Big Road’§ village reaches from the 
Medicine Bow to the tops of the Big Horn, and 
there are not enough white soldiers or cowboys in all 
the land to take him. He says he’s going to ride 
with his six sons and fight Fort Frayne at sunrise.” 

“ Then I’ll have time to see the fun,” said Ormsby, 
with a laugh that had no mirth in it. “ My train 
goes at eight, and I should hate to miss the enter- 
tainment. I’ve come out to say good-bye to you, 


FOET FEAYNE. 


233 


Terry,” he continued, as he held forth his hand to 
the surprised corporal, 

‘‘Shure, Misthej Ormsby is not goin’ to lave us — 
now — with all the new trouble — and Miss Ellis 
down sick? ” 

‘‘I’m of no use to them, Rorke, ” said Ormsby, 
sadly, as Farwell edged on to the front as though to give 
him a chance to talk to this faithful old henchman of the 
Farrars. “ Indeed I’m getting superstitious. I bring 
them nothing but ill luck. I’ve never come that it 
wasn’t like some bird of ill omen. First it cost them 
the blessed old colonel’s life,and now that scapegrace 
son is brought back into their world just long enough 
to reopen all the old wounds, and the poor mother is 
bowed with new shame and sorrow and with new 
anxiety since Miss Ellis is down. The doctors say 
the danger is past and she will soon rally. You and 
Lieutenant Will are all they need. So — take good care 
of them, Terry, and of yourself, too, and don’t for- 
get we’ve had one or two good rides together, even 
though I can’t be with you in this — and — I’ve left a 
little remembrance for you with ‘ Master Will ’ — only 
don’t you dare call him that again.” 

‘ ‘ Sure, no man in the Twelfth will ever need a 
rememberance of Mr. Ormsby that saw him that day 
we jumped Kill Eagle in the snowstorm, but whis- 
per,” he murmured, wistfully, “who’s to tell Miss 
Ellis? The roses will be slow coming back to the 
blessed faceav her — whin she finds you’re gone.” 

“I’ve got to go, Rorke,” said Ormsby, briefly. 
“In all my years in our regiment, I’ve never missed 


234 


FORT FRAYNE. 


an inspection or a review, and mighty few drills have 
I failed to be there. They’d forgive me for staying 
here for the honor of the Seventh, and a sure thing of 
a fight, but nothing less, and the colonel says there 
is no fight here — only another surround and caj^ture 
and escort home. Why, Big Road’s drunk! ” 

“Ay, ay, -sorr, and if the colonel was Irish, as 
was him that preceded him — by brevet annyhow, 
and the love of ivery Irishman in the Twelfth — he’d 
know that an Indian’s never so full of fight as whin 
lie’s full of whiskey. There isn’t room in Big Road’s 
skin for another noggin’, sir. His people will drag 
him after the village. The cowboys will jump them 
up the range. It’ll bring on a general row, and our 
carbines will be crackling along Trooper Creek by 
noonday to-morrow, or I’m worse than a Jew — I’m a 
bureau agent! ” 

“flow’d you get out here, any way? You’re 
in Captain Leale’s troop.” 

“ True, sorr, but the colonel put me on jewty wid 
the few Indians that’s left since Crow Knife died, 
and by regimental orders I’m timporariously a Sioux 
sergeant. It’s an Irishman over the Indian. That’s 
poetic justice, sorr — the green above the red.” 

‘ ‘ May you win the chevrons this night in your 
own troop, Terry, and I’ll send you the handsomest 
pair to be made in New York. Good-bye, old friend. 
Take care of them — all. I must ride back now.” 

And so with one long clasp of the hand the two 
friends and fellow campaigners, oddly mated, yet 
closely allied, turned slowly away from one another. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


235 


Rorke to take up once again his post of duty, Ormsby 
to mount and, riding in silence past the shivering 
groups of soldiers, huddling about their horses and 
dancing and stamping to keep from freezing, to hie 
him back to the fort and for a parting word with 
Will. 

Far up on the snow-mantled bluff the ruddy night 
lights were burning in the colonel’s quarters. Far 
above them, the brilliant stars were twinkling in the 
sky. Over across the stream the bale fires burned 
like wreckers’ luring signals on the shore among the 
dingy clusters of wooden shacks where Bunco Jim 
had undisputed sway. Away out northward across 
the frozen steppe there sounded once in a while some 
bacchanalian whoop, for savages red and savages 
dirty white were riding in parallel parties, and be- 
ginning now to shout drunken defiance at one another 
over the intervening mile. Behind him, as he swiftly 
rode, Ormsby could hear, with increasing frequency, 
the whoops and yells of Big Road’s stragglers, still 
anchored south of the Platte, but evidently getting 
slowly under way. Then straight ahead, up along 
the plateau, in ringing, fearless tone, the sentries be- 
gan their midnight call, and all the valley re-echoed 
to the stirring assurance that, so far as Frayne and 
its sleeping populace was concerned, it was twelve 
o’clock and all well. 

And then somewhere across the stream among that 
cluster of ramshackle hovels there flared a sudden 
light, a single, instantaneous flash, followed in a few 
seconds by a loud bang that revived the echoes of the 


236 


FORT FRAYNE. 


watch-cry, just as the last, in faint aerial ripple, 
seemed dying miles away, and then Jack Ormsbj 
struck spurs to his horse and galloped to the post. 
Even though no answers came from the sentries on 
the bluff, he knew that shot was no empty, meaning- 
less, reckless deed. It was a signal to some distant 
watcher and was answered, just as Ormsby expected, 
by a faint, far-away crack of rifle, miles perhaps to the 
silent north. 

A corporal came running to meet and identify him 
when he was halted by the westward sentry on 
Number Three. 

‘‘Have they started, sir?” asked he. 

“Yes; all but a few are gone. What are the lights 
about? Anything astir at the post? ” 

‘“ K ’ Troop ordered right out, sir. The wires quit 
working twenty minutes ago, and they’re cut along 
the railway to the east.” 

Throwing himself from his horse when he reached 
the colonel’s quarters, Ormsby hastened in and found 
that energetic warrior saying things that impelled 
Aunt Lou to stop her ears and lift up a plaintive 
voice in vain protest. The adjutant was there, a 
sympathetic listener, however, and the orderly had 
gone for the officer of the day — the official who, next 
to the adjutant, was always sure to be summoned 
when anything of unusually exasperating character 
had happened. 

“Did you ever know anything more contempt- 
uously impudent in your life. Jack? ” said his uncle. 
“They’ve let me wear these wires hot sending all 


FORT FRAYXE. 


237 


manner of prayers to be allowed to do something, 
and, just so long as the replies were orders not to in- 
terfere, our friends and fellow-citizens have let them 
through. Now, the moment the tide begins to turn, 
and the agent or the general, or somebody else, has 
a lucid interval, and things begin coming our way, 
they find it out and clip the wires. How could they 
find it out? Why, they have more friends at court 
than we ever could hope to have. I’ll bet six months’ 
pay the order for us to move is sizzling in the snow 
somewhere east of Canon Springs. I’ve sent half 
a dozen of the best light riders in ‘ K ’ Troop east 
to find the break, but it will be broad daylight before 
a word can reach us, and by that time that whole 
outfit will be at Trooper Creek. Were there any left 
when you came away? ” 

‘‘Just a few, sir. They’ve been supplied with 
whiskey from Bunco Jim’s, I fancy, and some of 
them seem very drunk. Farwell thinks the village 
is strung out over as much as a dozen miles. You 
heard that shot a few minutes ago, did you?” 

“The sentry did, and reported it — Number Five — 
and he said there were others far to the north. I’m told 
that there isn’t a man left in that hell-hole across the 
creek — all gone to take part in some prearranged 
scrap with Big Road’s people, and here we are, 
powerless to do a thing.” 

“Well, said Ormsby, after a minute’s reflection, 
‘ ‘ on general principles, don’t you think it rather a 
good thing to let them scrap? It will only result in 
a number of very objectionable characters, red and 


238 


FORT FRAYNE. 


white both, being cleaned out, and for once the 
Twelfth will have no losses to mourn. I’d let ’em 
fight, and say, bless you, my children, if I had any- 
thing to do with it.” 

“Oh, so would I, if I weren’t a ‘regular’, and 
therefore blamed, no matter which way the thing 
goes. If the Indians get the worst of it, the Interior 
Department, the peace societies, the Y. M. C. A.’s, 
and God knows how many other pious people all 
over America, will be howling ‘Abolish the army’ 
for looking on and allowing this wholesale slaughter 
of innocent and helpless ward's of the Nation, and 
if the wards come out atop and clean out the cow- 
boys, the press of the country will ring with accounts 
of how the gallant frontiersmen sent courier after 
courier to the fort, praying for aid, and the cowardly 
commander and his dude cavalry were most of them 
helplessly drunk, and couldn’t do or wouldn’t do a 
thing. I agree with old Kenyon down at Fort Rus- 
sell, by Jupiter! We’d have Inspectors and courts 
of inquiry and all that sort of thing, and by the 
time the lies had saturated the whole country and 
the truth was beginning to come out, the papers 
would say it was no longer a matter of sufficient in- 
terest to publish. No, Jack; you thank God you’re 
in the Seventh, even when you’re being brickbatted. 
I’m going to launch out after that gang, orders or no 
orders. So that’s the end of it. Ride after Farwell,” 
said he to his silent staff-officer, ‘ ‘ and tell him to 
follow close on the heels of Big Road, and I’ll back 
him with all we’ve got. Tell him if he hears firing 


I'ORl? FRAYNR. 


239 


ahead to stop it, if he can, but if he can’t, then, by 
thunder, to help the Indians — they’re the injured 
ones in this deal!” And with those memorable in- 
structions on his lips, Fenton strode forth upon the 
porch of his quarters, out into the still and starlit 
night, now faintly illumined by the rays of the wan- 
ing moon, and in another moment the trumpets were 
blaring “To horse,” and all Fort Frayne sprang to 
life. 

It was but a little after midnight, and many of the 
men were still awake. Others, lying down on their 
bunks without removing boots or blouses, had fallen 
into an uneasy doze. It seemed but a minute before, 
full panoplied, they were streaming down to the 
stables, where the horses were already pawing and 
snorting excitedly as though the sound of this mid- 
night alarm had conveyed its full meaning to them. 
At any other time Jack Ormsby would have found 
keen delight in watching the prompt, soldierly style 
in which the troopers sprang to their work, and the 
swift, deft saddling and rapid formation of troop 
after troop, but to-night his heart was leaden. Not 
for him the rush and vigor and exhilaration of the 
sudden start and sharp pursuit. While they, the 
men among whom he was proud to be hailed as friend 
and comrade, were speeding on their ride to the res- 
cue, he, summoned by a duty as imperative and held 
as obligation every bit as sacred, would have to turn 
his back on the bounding column, on Fort Frayne, 
with all that was dearest, fondest, fairest in life, 
and hasten eastward by the morning train, or be 


240 


FORT FRAYNE. 


held as having broken the spotless record of his 
company. 

Even as the men were leading into line and the 
stern voices of the troop sergeants could be heard 
calling the roll, and lights began to gleam in the 
lower windows of the officers’ quarters and pallid 
women appeared at the doorways, clinging to the 
very last to husband or father hastening to his duty, 
poor Jack stood in front of the little gateway of the 
Farrars’, gazing aloft at the window of Ellis’s room, 
where the dim night light told of the sad and anxious 
watch maintained, and with all his soul he longed to 
follow the buoyant, bounding footsteps of the gallant 
boy who had just come rushing by from the adjoin- 
ing quarters, admitted at the hallway for the mother’s 
parting kiss and blessing, and long, long clinging 
embrace. With all his heart bound up in that little 
household, J ack stood there at the threshold, unbid- 
den, yet longing to enter. Not once had he set eyes 
on the face of the girl he loved since the night of his 
startling announcement. Only once had he caught 
sight of the mother’s pallid, patient features at the 
window. Had he no rights, no welcome there — he, 
who would serve them with his heart’s blood, if that 
could save them from ill or suffering? Booted men 
in rough campaign dress brushed him by with un- 
heard, unanswered words of soldier greeting, and the 
surgeon, hurrying past, stopped to say: ‘‘Leale begs 
you will come to him a moment, and I can’t forbid it 
now.” 

Ormsby bowed assent, yet hardly knew to what. 
He was waiting only for Will, and presently the boy 


J'OEt EEAYNE. 


Ul 


came S2:)ringing forth and, as Ormsby stej^ped eagerly 
forward with inquiry for Ellis and her mother, the 
words died on his lips, for, dashing his hand across 
his eyes, Will sped swiftly by, with only this for 
greeting: ‘‘Hello, Jack! Don’t stoj) me now, for 
God’s sake. I’ve just time to see Kitty,” and more 
than half the words came back over his shoulder. 

It was Helen Daunton who, peering forth from the 
doorway, saw him standing there and mercifully 
bade him enter — Mrs. Farrar would be only too 
glad to see him — and gratefully Jack obeyed. The 
squadron was forming on the parade as Ormsby 
entered the little army cottage and was ushered into 
the parlor. There at the window, with tears still 
streaming down her gentle face, stood Mrs. Farrar, 
gazing out over the dim expanse at the dark ranks 
on the opposite side, and longing for one more peep 
at her boy, whose horse had been led away up to the 
colonel’s quarters. She partly turned as Jack tip- 
toed in, and a wan, sad smile flickered one moment 
about her lips. 

“You, too, are going,” she said, “and I know 
how busy you are, but I could not let you go until I 
had told you — as I told Willy to tell you, if I did 
not see you again before the start — that from Helen 
I have learned how true, how noble a friend and 
helper you have been to her and how you strove to 
shield my poor, poor boy. God bless you. Jack — I 
shall always call you that now, for you seem like my 
own to me. God bless you for all you’ve done and 
tried to do for me and mine.” She had clasped both 


242 


FORT FRAYNE. 


Tais hands now, and the tears were raining down her 
face. 

Before he could answer, a little knot of horsemen 
rode past the gate. One of them reined aside and 
waved his hand toward the window where the mother 
stood. Again she turned thither with love and 
dread, with pride and sorrow and yearning in her 
gaze. Then a trumpet sounded, aud the tall young 
soldier spurred suddenly away. 

‘‘Forgive me, Jack, I know you have to go. 
Don’t let me keep you now,” she sobbed, and Helen 
came and twined her arms about her, and Ormsby 
bent and kissed the fragile hand and went noiselessly 
out into the night. Twenty minutes later, when 
once again he gazed upward at the little dormer win- 
dow of the room where Ellis slept her fevered sleep, 
the squadron had gone, the parade was deserted. 
There were bright beams from the windows of the 
colonel’s quarters, but all was darkness in his heart 
and here in the little army home where were left 
only women now, bearing the name and the sorrows 
of the Farrars. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


‘‘A HAPPY New Year to you,” said the conductor 
of the ‘‘Limited,” as Jack Ormsby was whisked 
away eastward from Chicago, after sixty hours of 
incessant railway riding from Fort Frayne. Happy 
New Year, indeed! It sounded like mockery. 

Turning away with a sigh from the gateway of 
Will’s quarters, he had gone at last to Leale’s, and 
bitterly did he reproach himself that so little thought 
had he given to the appeal of that stanch a^id loyal 
friend. The attendant ushered him in to where, 
with bandaged, sightless eyes and painful breathing, 
the stalwart soldier lay, heroic in his endurance. 
Their interview was brief, for Leale was forbidden 
to talk more than was absolutely necessary, and only 
in a hoarse whisper could he talk at all. Bending 
over his bedside. Jack had taken the captain’s hand 
in his and told him that the troops were gone on 
their stern chase in default of orders to the contrary, 
and that Fenton hoped to overtake the Indians and 
interpose again between them and the cowboys before 
the latter could gather in overwhelming strength, 
and then he briefly gave the reasons which compelled 
him to "take the morning train for the East. Even 
under the bandages Ormsby thought he saw an 
instant shadow of disappointment. 

“What is it, Leale, old chap?” he asked. “Had 

243 


244 


FORT FRAYNE. 


you any plan? — anything in which I could serve 
you? ” 

‘‘ I must go — too — but they will not let me move 
— yet,” was the whispered reply. 

‘‘Man and boy,” cried poor Jack, “I’ve been in 
the Seventh ever since I was old enough to enlist, 
and never until this night have I known what it was 
to wish I were free to stay away, but dear old fellow, 
I thought it was costing me more than I could bear be- 
fore seeing you, and now — Leale,” he broke off im- 
pulsively, “I’m turning my back on everything I 
hold dear in this world to-night — my sister, my 
heart’s love, my trustiest friend when most he needs 
me — everything but one, and that is the old regiment 
in New York. You’re a soldier, Leale, if there ever 
lived one. You know our record aiid our traditions. 
So long as I hold my warrant in the Seventh, is it 
not my bounden duty to goto them and go at once?” 

A clasp of the hand with a movement of the lips 
was the only answer for a moment, and then “You’re 
right. Jack — go! I’m coming — soon.” 

“Then I’ll come half way to meet you, Leale. I’ll 
join you in Chicago. If there be time I’ll come ’way 
back here, and, unless your doctors say you must go into 
hospital, my house is to be your home, and the 
specialists can see you there. I have said good-bye 
to Mrs. Farrar — to Will’s mother, and to — Helen. 
They think I went with the command. Will you 
promise? Will you come to my roof, Leale, and let 
us nurse you there to sight and strength again?” 


FORT FEAYNE. 


245 


But Leale slowly shook his head. I must go 
home, Jack, a little while, and then — to Europe.” 

And so the friends had parted — each aware of the 
other’s plight, yet neither able to help. Not until 
long after the train had gone whistling away did 
the Farrars know that it was back to Gotham 
Ormsby had been called, and then it was through Kitty. 
She came hurrying in to say that with their glasses 
they could plainly see some of the command riding 
homeward from the direction of Trooper Creek. And 
meantime the line repairers who had gone along the 
track from Canon Springs had found the breaks — a 
dozen of them— and restrung their light copper wire, 
and, now that they were no longer of consequence, 
orders, injunctions and suggestions by the dozen 
were coming in. Wayne, left at the post in tempo- 
rary command, opened, read, re-read and pooh-poohed 
the first that came — these being from the agency — 
but began to wake up in earnest as he opened the 
sixth or seventh of the brown envelopes. Then sud- 
denly he hastened over to the colonel’s house, leaving 
the clerks at the ofiice to their devices, and with his 
field-glass and an attendant officer and orderly, began 
studying the northward stretch of snowy prairie 
while Lucretia wistfully watched him from the gal- 
lery. When a messenger came running up with, and 
Wayne opened, the next dispatch, she could not longer 
restrain her curiosity, and so came boldly forth to 
demand explanation. 

Over across the Platte, among the shanties that 
smTounded Bunco Jim’s establishment, there were 


246 


FORT FRATNE. 


signs of excitement and lively emotion. The sentries 
reported that ever since daylight, in squads of twos 
or threes, cowboys and ranchmen had been riding to 
and fro, and now there was much carousing about 
the bars, and no little scurrying hither and thither of 
slatternly women. Two teams had been hitched and 
driven away northward, and the few soldiers who 
swarmed out along the sentry post — forbidden to go 
beyond or to hold communication with the gang 
across the river — surmised that they were needed to 
bring in wounded, and that therefore there must have 
been a scrimmage. Old Jimmy Brewer, a frontier 
character to whom no few liberties were allowed be- 
cause of his long-tried loyalty to garrison after garri- 
son at Frayne, had been relied upon to come in as 
usual with his load of dairy goods and gossip, had 
failed, however, to materialize this morning, of all 
others, and Frayne was short of cream and news of 
the neighborhood just at the time when both would 
have been comforting. 

But Wayne, as has been said, was a man who, once 
aroused from the dreamy abstraction of his daily life 
and thrown upon his mettle as commanding officer, 
had been known to display surprising energy, and 
here was a case in point. 

“I wish you, ’’.said he to the post quarter-master, 
who was in attendance upon him at the moment, ‘ ‘ to 
take a couple of men and find out what you can in 
the settlement yonder of what has been going on this 
morning. Then I need a first-rate rider to go at the 
gallop to Trooper Creek.” Then he turned and 


FORT FRAYXE. 


247 


bowed to the appealing face peering out at him from 
under its hood of fur so close at his side. “ Let me 
put an end to your anxiety, Miss Fenton,” said he, 
reassuringly. “Your brother, the colonel, will be 
on his homeward way just as soon as he gets those 
dispatches. So you and Miss Onnsby can breakfast 
in peace and comfort.” 

But Wayne, for once in his life, revealed no more 
than was his actual intention. Pouring forth her 
voluble song of thanksgiving, Lucretia talked a 
steady flow until once more he raised his cap to her 
at her door, and then, turning suddenly away, 
hastened to the office before she could recover from 
her astonishment at this unusually precipitate move. 
She had deprived herself of all opportunity of asking 
for particulars or for learning what Wayne himself 
was now to do. Hearing from his lips that her 
brother would soon be on his homeward way, she 
placed no other interpretation upon the news than 
that the regiment would be coming with him, that 
the war was over, and their troubles at an end. 

But could she have seen ‘Wayne’s face as he 
hastened to his quarters, bade his orderly pack his 
field kit at once, and then get the horses, she would 
have known that a serious matter was in hand. From 
his own door the major hurried back to the office 
again, wrote three telegraphic messages, and sum- 
moned the orderly trumpeter. 

“Give my compliments to the post surgeon, and 
ask if he will meet me at my quarters at once,” he 
said. Then, directing the clerk to have the messages 


248 


rOET FEAYNE. 


rushed, he hastened across the parade, and, ringing 
at the Farrars’ door, begged to see Mrs. Daunton a 
moment. As luck would have it, Dr. Gibson him* 
self was in low-toned consultation with Helen in the 
parlor, and he looked up with marked interest as 
Wayne was ushered in. 

The major read the inquiry in the doctor’s eyes. 
He greeted Mrs. Daunton with brief courtesy, and 
then spoke. “Yes. He’s ordered in — relieved — 
and I’m ordered out. It’s only another instance of 
the old story. I go in ten minutes, and have no 
idea at this moment what has been going on at the 
front — no more idea than Fenton has of what has 
been going on at the rear. If there’s been a fight, 
cowboy and Indian, as is probable, and the band has 
slipped away to the mountains, then we will have to 
follow, and probably take up a fight we had nothing 
to do with at first and did our best to prevent. I 
came, Mrs. Daunton,” said he, gravely, “to ask for 
Mrs. Farrar and Miss Ellis, as Will will be anxious to 
know, and I fear it will be some time before he can 
hope to see them again.” 

“ That is what his mother feared, major, and it is 
that we have to contend with now. Miss Farrar is 
somewhat better, as the doctor will tell you, but, of 
of course, she is very weak, and knows nothing of 
the excitements of last night. But what am I to 
tell Mrs. Farrar? ” she continued, with brimming 
eyes. “The servants have been saying in the 
kitchen that there has been a battle, but the corporal 
of the guard declared to us that the regiment could 


FORT FRAYNE. 


249 


be seen coming home, and I have comforted her with 
that, and now — ” 

‘‘And now I fear I’ll have to say it is only some 
little detachment convoying prisoners,” answered 
Wayne, “ but the command itself will have to push 
on in pursuit. Tell her, though, there is no likeli- 
hood of our having any serious fighting, and that 
I’ll watch over Will and care for him as though he 
were my own boy.” 

“ I wish she could hear you,” pleaded Helen, 
“ but I made her go back to her bed a while ago, 
and you must start — ” 

“ I must go at once,” he answered, gravely. “ Is 
there anything I can take for you or for her? ” 

“She is sleeping, I hope,” said Helen, in reply, 
“ for all night long she has hardly closed her eyes, 
but there will be other messengers, probably, during 
the day, will there not? ” 

“Yes, several, doubtless, especially after the de- 
tachment gets in.” 

“Well, then, I have one — packet; I hardly like 
to burden you with it, major, yet ought not, per- 
haps, intrust it to any one else. It can be ready in 
five minutes. ” 

“ Then I will call for it,” he answered promptly, 
and, taking the doctor with him, retraced his steps 
to his own door. 

Fifteen minutes later a motley little procession be- 
gan straggling across the Platte and heading for the 
post — a small party of troopers escorting a bevy of 
Indians, some prostrate on travois, some astride of 


260 


• FORT FRAYNE. 


scraggly ponies, some shuffling along afoot, some 
few big-eyed, solemn little papooses on their mothers’ 
backs, and with them came the first tidings of the 
events of the night gone by. 

Long before Big Road’s party had begun to reach 
the appointed rendezvous on Trooper Creek, there 
had been hostile demonstrations from white men 
out on the bluffs to the front and on their right 
flank; — that is to the north and east. There had 
been firing during the night. Now came serious 
action with the break of day. These men wore 
fur caps and gloves, soldiers’ winter overcoats just 
like the regulars — and why shouldn’t they, since 
Bunco Jim and his associates had long driven a 
thriving trade buying up such items of winter wear 
of deserters or drunkards from the post? They 
formed along the hillsides afar off, keeping up the 
semblance of cavalry skirmish order, and evidently 
striving to harass or delay the movement of the 
Indians as much as possible, and yet to keep well 
out of harm’s way. There was also evident desire 
to convince the fleeing village that its assailants 
were cavalrymen from Fort Frayne, but even before 
the few young braves, riding valiantly out to inter- 
pose between their women and children and old folks 
and these, their aggressors, sent in word that no sol- 
diers were among the enemy — that it was all a cow- 
boy crowd — the older men who remained had dis- 
covered the fact, and dispatched runners to Big 
Road with the news. That redoubtable chief was 
still drunk, but the sound of firing had vanquished 


FORT FRAYNE. 


251 


the stupefying effect of his potations, and, though 
two or three of his chosen followers were helplessly 
gone, he appeared with the first peep of day, ag- 
gressively hostile and eager to fight anything or any- 
body. Galloping forward, reeling in saddle, but 
hanging on as only an Indian can, he had marshaled 
and led his people, and the next thing the cowboys 
knew old Big Road had turned on them like a baited 
bull. Within half an hour after dawn the bluffs 
along Trooper Creek were ringing to the music of 
warwhoop and battle-cry, and the wintry air was 
throbbing to the swift rattle of musketry. With 
half a dozen of his prominent fellow-citizens 
stretched on the snow dead or crippled. Bunco Jim 
thanked God when some one shouted that the cavalry 
were riding into line not two miles away. Gather- 
ing up the stragglers of the village, old Fenton had 
pushed his skirmish line straight out across the 
frozen creek, and, while Big Road and most of his 
warriors went whirling up the opposite slope, back- 
ing away for the Big Horn with most of the village 
beyond them, and firing from a distance at the swift 
but regulated advance of the Twelfth, Fenton had 
swung his right wing in wide- spreading sweep across 
the snow-covered prairie, brushing aside, turning 
back, and in some few instances riding over the 
cowboys who wouldn’t get out of the way. 

‘‘You tricked those poor devils into making a 
break,” he furiously replied to the first plainsman 
who claimed to be fighting to help the soldier. 
“You lied them into leaving, and then attacked 


252 


FORT FRAYNE. 


them on the run. Get out of the way, every damned 
one of you, or, by Heaven, there’ll be war that’ll 
make your head swim. ” 

But, do his best, he was too late for the real object 
of his coming. Bunco Jim’s strategy had prevailed. 
The Indians were in full flight for the mountains, 
and the onus of the whole business was satisfactorily 
transferred to the shoulders of the troops. Two of 
Jim’s numerous allies had been knocked on the head, 
but as he sagely reflected, they were fellows from the 
Powder River country who didn’t owe him a cent. 
Certain others were more or less severely wounded, 
and would have to be cared for at Jimtown, but, on 
the other hand, they had gathered in a number of 
Indian ponies, had shot a warrior or two and could 
easily swear they’d killed a dozen; but, best of all, 
they had embroiled Big Road with Uncle Sam, and 
brought on a war that might involve all Big Road’s 
friends, Sioux or Cheyenne, call to the scene thou- 
sands of soldiers, and ‘‘bull the market” for beef 
cattle, provisions, and forage, on all of which Jim 
held a corner. 

And so, when noonday came, his wounded were 
safely in hospital, within the log walls of his prairie 
town, and the Indians were far away northward 
toward Cloud Peak, the Twelfth following in steady 
pursuit, receiving shots from time to time from the 
daring rear guard of the redskins, who refused all 
efforts to bring them to a halt and parley. A dozen 
Indians, young and old, were once more huddled 
about the smoking fires on the flats above the post, and 


FORT FRAYNE. 


S53 


a few troopers were swearing and shivering on guard 
about them, while up along the plateau, from door 
to door flitted the wives and children of the officers 
thus summarily hustled away into savage campaign, 
and all thought of holiday rejoicing was at an end. 

It was just eight o’clock when the major rode away, 
attended by a single orderly, leaving the post to the 
care of the few soldiers who remained. He had dis- 
mounted at the colonel’s, ostensibly to ask if they 
had any messages to send before reflecting that, un- 
less something utterly unforeseen should occur, the 
colonel himself would be there to hear the messages 
in person before the setting of the sun. , The con- 
sciousness of this fact dawned upon him as Lucretia 
met him at the door and covered him with an embar- 
rassment and confusion which made nothing short of 
ludicrous his farewell to the lady of his love. Kitty 
had gone to the Farrars, as has been said, \o mingle 
her tears with those of Will’s unhappy mother, and 
if there ever was a time when the coast was abso- 
lutely clear and all conditions favorable for a fond if 
brief avowal, it was this — it was now; yet such was 
Wayne’s consternation at finding he had bethought 
him of no other excuse than his own longing for 
coming at all, and such was his unconsciousness of 
the fact that she would prefer that to any excuse he 
could possibly devise, the bedeviled major stared 
blankly at her as she opened the door, and — to this 
day they tell it in the Twelfth with renewed guffaws 
of rejoicing — the only words that rose to his lips 
were these: 

<‘Er, ah — does — does Colonel Fenton live here?” 


254 


FOET FEAYNE. 


And Lucretia, bursting into tears, believed her 
beloved bad gone stark, staring mad. 

‘‘He uj) and grabbed her by the arm,” said Trum- 
peter Billy Madden at the bivouac fires that night, 
“and kind of shoved himself inside the door with 
her, and she a-cryin’, and the next I see of him he 
come a-lungin’ out, and, you hear me, her shawl was 
a-hangin’ over his shoulders and never dropped off 
till he got to the gate. What’d that mean? Well, 
if you’d a seen the old man’s face you wouldn’t ask. 
I’d a mind to strike him for ten right then and there, 
but Mrs. Daunton she come a-runnin’ with a big enve- 
lope just as we was startin’ and says, ‘Give that to 
Mr. Ormsby, please, and he swiped it into his saddle- 
bags, and says, ‘You bet, ’or something like it, when 
he knowed and I knowed Mr. Ormsby was a-scooting 
for Cheyenne fast as train could take him.” 

Indeed, it was not until after Wayne was a mile 
away across the Platte, riding with a light and 
bounding heart on a sad and vexatious errand, that 
Helen Daunton learned for the first time from Kitty’s 
lips that poor Jack had had to hurry home, that he 
had promised to be with the Seventh early in the 
week, “ and that,” said Kitty, “ is just the one thing 
no one can argue Jack out of.” 

And Helen’s face, sad and pale as it had been for 
days, grew still more sad and anxious now. This 
would be hard news for Ellis when she waked from 
the stupor of her fever. He had gone without one 
word, and, as Helen well knew, with a shadow, black 


FORT FRAYNE. 


255 


and forbidding between him and the girl he so fondly 
V)ved. 

Meantime, spurring rapidly northward and pass- 
ing every little while small parties of returning 

hustlers,” Wayne Avas in chase of the command. A 
swift courier had ridden ahead with certain of the 
dispatches that had been received, but those which 
came last of all the major bore himself. They will 
serve in some measure to prepare Fenton for these,” 
he said, as he rode over the last divide that separated 
him from the valley of Trooper Creek, and thanked 
his stars the winds were still instead of blowing, as 
ofttimes they were in midwinter, and with bitter 
energy, from the icy summits to the northward. Down 
along the frozen stream were traces of the morning 
fight. Scraps of Indian household goods and chat- 
tels, dropped in the hurry of their scramble for the 
bluffs beyond, an abandoned travois, a luckless dog, 
slain by a chance bullet, and here, there and every- 
where, the trampled snow and the countless prints of 
pony hoofs. Over toward the west, farther up the 
valley, a gradual ascent to the bluffs was seamed with 
over a score of parallel tracks at regular intervals, as 
though scraped out of the snowy surface by some 
giant harrow. This was where some troop in ex- 
tended order had swept up the slope, with Big Road’s 
warriors scurrying hither and yon at the distant crest. 
Far up the heights, stiffening in death, lay one of 
Amory’s beautiful sorrels, and Wayne’s heart ached 
as he thought of the many miles he had yet to ride, 
the similar sights he had yet to see, and the galling 


256 


I’ORT FEAYNI!. 


tidings he had yet to deliver. He had known Fen- 
ton over thirty years, and he knew well his deep- 
rooted pride in his profession, and the rugged hon- 
esty which dictated his every move. He knew that 
now, as perhaps never before since the great days of 
the civil war, was Fenton enthusiastically bound up 
in his duties, for she who was the inspiration of his 
earliest ambition and to whom, through all these 
years, his loyal heart had clung, was there at Frayne 
watching, despite the sorrows of her widowhood, the 
shock and shame that followed upon the death of 
her reckless, sin-stained boy, and the deep anxiety 
for her surviving children — watching and cheering 
his steadfast effort to keep the standard of the 
Twelfth where Farrar had left it — foremost among 
the famous regiments of the army that had been her 
home. 

And it was this loyal, sturdy soldier and gentleman, 
in the height of his duteous and most energetic serv- 
ice, whom Wayne found himself ordered to supersede 
— to relieve in the command of Fort Frayne and so 
much of the Twelfth as was there stationed, in order 
that F enton might repair at once to the distant head- 
quarters of the department, there to answer the 
charges and allegations laid at his door by officials of 
the Interior Department, and by so-called prominent 
citizens of broad Wyoming. Verily, the king of the 
cowboys had not made his threats in vain. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Just as Terry Rorke had said, the Twelfth had 
spent its New Year’s Day hot on the Indian trail. 
Into the foothills it wound, tortuous and full of peril, 
for from every projecting point, from rock to rock 
and crest to crest, the warrior rear-guard poured 
their fire on the advancing line. Charges were fruit- 
less. The nimble ponies of the Indians bore their 
riders swiftly out of harm’s way, and only among 
the charging force did casualties occur. Still, Fen- 
ton had hung like a bulldog to his task, hoping be- 
fore nightfall to catch up with the main body and 
the moving village, then to hem it in. Numerically, 
he was little better off than the Indians, and fifty 
Indians can surround five hundred troopers much 
more effectively than five hundred troopers can sur- 
round fifty mounted* warriors. Through Bat and 
others he had vainly striven to communicate with 
Big Road, to assure him no harm would be done; 
that all that was necessary was for him to return with 
his people under escort of the regiment to the reser- 
vation. Up to 4 p. M. not a shot had been fired by 
the Twelfth, even in response to a sometimes galling 
fusillade from the Indians. By that time several 
men had been unhorsed and two or three wounded, 
and the thing was getting exasperating, yet was it 
worth keeping up, for Bat and other scouts declared 

257 


258 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the fleeing village to be less than three miles ahead 
now, and, with that overhauled, the warriors could 
be brought to bay well south of the mountains, and 
to the accomplishment of this without sacrificing men 
or horses to any great extent, Fenton was bending 
every energy when overtaken by the first courier 
from Frayne. 

Wayne had marked the dispatches in the order in 
which they should be read, but the only ones which 
much concerned him now were from department 
headquarters. A new king who knew not Joseph, a 
new general with whom Fenton had never chanced 
to serve, was there in command, and he, coming a 
comparative stranger to the community, knew little 
of the merits of the politicians by whom he was 
speedily besieged. They were present in force, 
armed with letters and dispatches by the score from 
so-called prominent citizens resident along the Platte, 
and Fenton was practically unrepresented. It was 
in no spirit of unkindness, but rather that Fenton 
might have opportunity to come thither and con- 
front and confound, if he could, his accusers, that 
the general had issued the first order, which was 
that Fenton should ‘ ‘ immediately escort Big Road 
and his people back to the agency, and then report 
to these headquarters for consultation.” That dis- 
patch, if delivered, would have ruined all the plans 
of the plainsmen, and the wires were clipped the 
moment warning came, and it never got beyond the 
old sub-station on the Laramie until after the repairs 
were made, but other dispatches were wired back 


FORT FRAYNE. 


259 


from below the breaks, alleging first, that so far 
from Fenton’s doing as ordered, he was apparently 
bent on driving Big Road’s people up the river or 
into the open field; then, that he had done so, and 
that the Indians were now raiding l»he scattered 
ranches, and driving the cattle into the foothills, 
while the settlers were fleeing in terror. Fenton’s 
dispatches, wired before Big Road’s escapade, had, 
of course, been received, but his report of the situa- 
tion was at utter variance with that from the agency 
and those from the Thorpe party. Gross mis- 
management and general incompetency were the 
principal allegations against Fenton, though the 
astute ‘^hustlers ” did not forget to add drunkenness 
to the list as one which the public would accept 
without question, he being an army officer; and when 
the governor himself was induced to add his com- 
plaint to those of his enterprising people, the general 
yielded. The dispatches sent by courier called for 
explanation of the charges made by the agent and 
civilians, intimated doubt as to the wisdom of Fen- 
ton’s course or the accuracy of his information, and 
wound up with the significant clause: Do nothing 

to provoke hostilities or arouse the fears of the 
Indians,” and here he had been in hot pursuit of 
them all the livelong day. 

Stung to the quick, Fenton nevertheless pressed 
vigorously on. The result would justify him, and 
he could wait for his vindication until the campaign 
was over. The village at sundown could not be 
more than three miles away, said his scouts, and the 


260 


FORT FRAYNE. 


energy of Big Road’s defensive measures was re- 
doubled. Instructions to do nothing to provoke 
hostilities were dead letters now that hostilities had 
actually been provoked — not by him or his people, 
but, between them, by Big Road and the cowboys. 
There was only one course for Fenton to take, and 
that was to overhaul the village and peaceably, if he 
could, but forcibly if he must, escort it back within 
the reservation lines. Bat had ridden up just as the 
sun was disappearing, to say that the Indians seemed 
to be heading for a deep cleft in the foothills through 
which the buffalo in bygone days had made their 
way. Now, if Fenton could only send Farwell or 
Amory with half the squadron to gallop in wide de- 
tour to the west, under cover of the darkness, and 
seize the bluffs overhanging the canon, meantime 
making every pretense of keeping up the pursuit 
with the remainder of his force, he might trap the 
village while most of its defenders were still far 
away. Darkness settled down over the desolate 
wintry landscape, and the two troops dispatched on 
this stirring and perilous mission were those of 
Farwell and Malcolm Leale, the latter led by its boy 
lieutenant, Will Farrar. 

One hour later, as the advance was still groping 
along the trail and the weary troo]3ers, alternately 
leading afoot and riding sleepily in narrow column, 
pushed steadily in their tracks, two horsemen on 
jaded mounts came spurring from the rear, and 
Wayne, with sorrowful face, handed his dispatches 
to the colonel. By the light of a little pocket 


FOET FEAYNE. 


261 


lantern Fenton read, while in brooding silence a knot 
of half a dozen officers gathered about them. The 
closing paragraph is all we need to quote: <‘You 
will, therefore, turn over the command to Major 
Wayne and report in person at these headquarters 
without unnecessary delay. Acknowledge receipt.” 
At any other time the colonel might have been ex- 
pected to swear vigorously, but the trouble in 
Wayne’s face and the unspoken sympathy and sorrow 
were too much for him. ‘‘ All right, old boy,” said 
he, as he refolded the papers. Pitch in now, and 
finish up the business, with my blessing. Bat,” he 
continued, turning to the swarthy guide, ‘‘how far 
is it over to the Allison ranch? I think I’ll sleep 
there.” And no further words were needed to tell 
the little group that their colonel had been removed 
from command just on the eve of consummation of 
his plans, and he was the only man of the lot who 
didn’t look as though all heart had been taken out 
of him as the immediate result. 

“Damn that fellow Thorpe! It’s his doing,” 
swore the adjutant, between his set teeth. “He 
has never forgiven us for spoiling his scheme to clean 
out the whole band. ” 

“Don’t waste time swearing,” said Fenton, grimly. 
“I’ll take that job off your hands. They’re head- 
ing for Elk Springs, Wayne, and I’ve sent Farwell 
with two troops around to the left to find their 
way to the bluffs and get there first. Everything 
depends on that.” 

But even Fenton hardly realized how very much 


262 


rOET FEAYNE. 


depended. It was now about seven o’clock, and ever 
since the early dawn the cavalry had been pressing 
steadily at the heels of the Indian rear-guard, never 
firing, never responding to the challenge of shot or 
shout from the scampering warriors before them. 
Again and again had Bat and his half-breed cousin. 
La Bonte, striven to get Big Road to halt and parley, 
but, though the signals were fully understood. Old 
Road was mad with the mingled rage of fight and 
whiskey, and believed himself the leader of an out- 
break that should rival that of 1876 and place him, 
as a battle chief, head of an army of warriors that 
should overrun the Northwest. Anxious only to get 
the women and children safely in among the fast- 
nesses of the hills, he contented himself, therefore, 
through the livelong day, with holding the troops at 
long arms’ length, opening lively fire when they sought 
to push ahead. It was glorious fun for him and his. 
W ell they knew that so far, at least, the soldiers were 
forbidden to attack. With the coming of another 
day Big Road planned to have his village far in 
among the clefts and canons of the range, where a 
few resolute warriors could defend the pass against 
an advance, while he and his braves, reinforced by 
eager recruits from the young men of other bands 
at the reservation, could fall upon the flanks 
and rear of Fenton’s force and fritter it away as 
Red Cloud had massacred Fetterman’s men long 
years before at old Fort Kearny. 

Everything depended on who should get there first, 


FORT FRAYNE 


263 


and, as the Sioux said of Custer’s column, the bloody 
day on the Little Horn, ‘‘The soldiers were tired.” 

Extending southward from the peaks of the Big 
Horn was a wild range of irregular heights, covered 
in jDlaces with a thick growth of hardy young spruce 
and cedars and scrub oak, slashed and severed here 
and there by deep and tortuous canons with precipi- 
tous sides. Somewhere in among those hills was a 
big amphitheatre known as the Indian Race Course, 
approachable in winter, at least, only through the 
crooked rift or pass known for short as Elk Gulch. 
In just such another natural fastness, and only a few 
miles away to the northeast, had the Cheyennes made 
their famous stand against five times their weight in 
fighting men the bitter winter of 1876 — a battle the 
cavalry long had cause to remember, and now, with 
but a handful of troops as compared with the force 
led in by MacKenzie, Wayne had right before him 
a similar problem to tackle. The only points in his 
favor were that Big Road’s braves were as few as his 
own and that Fenton had already sent a force to race 
the Indians to their refuge. 

At eight o’clock the darkness was intense. There 
was no moon to light their way, and their only guide 
was the deep trail in the snowy surface left by the 
retreating Indians. The darkness was no deeper 
than the gloom in every heart, for Fenton was gone, 
a wronged and calumniated man, and they, his loyal 
soldiers obedient to a higher duty still, were forced 
to push on and finish his work without him. For 
an hour only at snail’s pace had they followed the 


264 


FORT FRAYNE. 


trail. Bat and his associates had had many a nar- 
row escape. Lieutenant Martin, commanding the 
advance, had had his horse shot under him. Sergeant 
Roe had a bullet through his coat, and Corporal 
Werrick, riding eagerly in the lead, got another 
through the shoulder. Luckily it was not very cold, 
but all the same, most of the men were becoming 
sluggish and sleepy, and that was just about the 
time Wayne might be expected to wake up — and 
wake up he did. 

‘‘Zhave had no orders on no account to attack,” 
said he, ‘ ‘ and I haven’t time to read all the rot 
they’ve wired to Fenton. Watch for the next shots 
ahead, there,” he cried to the foremost troopers, 
‘‘and sock it to them?” 

Then it was beautiful to see how even the horses 
seemed to rouse from their stupor and apathy and 
something almost like a cheer burst from the lips of 
the younger men. Old hands took a “swig” of 
water from their canteens and a bite at the comfort- 
ing plug. Out from the sockets came the brown 
carbines, and a fresh platoon was ordered up to re- 
lieve the advance, and Lieutenant Randolph took 
Martin’s place at the front. Every little while 
through the darkness ahead had come a flash and 
report from the invisible foe, and, as these had been 
suffered unavenged, it was soon observed that the 
lurking warriors grew bolder, and that with every 
shot the distance seemed to decrease. For half an 
hour past they had been coming in from easy pistol 
range, and Randolph took the cue. Bidding his 


FOET FEAYNE. 


265 


men open out and ride several yards apart, yet 
5;ligned as much as was possible, he ordered carbines 
dropped and revolvers drawn, and then, trotting 
along the rear of the dozen, gave his quick caution 
to man after man. ‘‘Watch for the flash and let 
drive at it. Even if we don’t hit, we’ll keejo them 
at respectful distance,” he said, and the words were 
hardly out of his mouth when a ruddy light leaped 
over the snow, a shot went zipping past his head, 
and then, followed by a roar of approval from the 
main column, the revolvers of the advance crackled 
and sputtered their answer. The landscaj^e was lit 
up for an instant; dark forms went pounding and 
scurrying away from the front, and a moment later 
there uprose a cheer over at the right and Randolph 
galloped to the spot. An Indian pony lay kicking, 
struggling, stiffening in the snow, shot through the 
body, and the rider had had to run for it. 

“That’s right, Randolph!” said the major, spur- 
ring to his side. “Now keep ’em off, but don’t 
push too hard. Remember, we’ve got to give Far- 
well time.” 

“ How far ahead is that confounded cahpn. Bat? ” 
asked the adjutant at the moment. 

“Not more than two mile now. I hunt buffalo all 
over here when I was a boy,” was the answer. “ Big 
Road’s peoj^le all there by this time, I’m afraid.” 

“Then you think that they got there first — that 
they’ve got the bluffs?” 

“ ’Fraid so. Big Road no fool. He wouldn’t let 
bis village drive into a gulch and not guard the 


266 


FORT FRAYNE. 


blulBfs. If the captain got there first, they’d have 
found it out by this time and signaled for help. The 
reason I believe they think they’re all safe is that so 
many Indians hang around us out here.” 

And just then came a grunt of disgust from 
La Bonte. The corporal at his side said ‘‘Hell!” 
and an excitable young trooper called out, “Look 
there! What’s that? ” for, over at the northwest, all 
on a sudden, a brilliant column of flame had burst 
through the blackness of the night and sent a broad 
glare streaming over the snow-clad surface of the 
rolling prairie. 

“They’re on to us, by the Eternal!” cried the 
adjutant, who loved the Jacksonian form of exple- 
tive. “Listen! ” But no one listened more than an 
instant. Even through the muffling coverlet of 
snow, the rumble and rush of a hundred pony hoofs, 
like low, distant thunder, told of the instant flight 
of Big Road’s braves in answer to the signal. Wayne 
was ablaze in a second. 

“Close up on the head of column!” he shouted to 
the troop leaders. “ Come on, now, men, for all 
you’re worth. There isn’t a second to spare.” 

And as the amazed and wearied horses gave answer 
to the spur and broke into lumbering gallop, far over 
at the west the rocks began to ring to the crackle of 
musketry. Farwell and the Sioux had clinched on 
the bluffs to the south of the springs, and were fight- 
ing in the dark for the right of way. 

Ten miles away, at Allison’s Ranch, wearied with 
the sleepless toil of twenty-four hours, too weary to 


FOET FEAYNE. 


267 


be kept awake even by the exasperating sense of his 
wrongs, the colonel was just rolling into his blankets 
for a much-needed rest before setting forth with the 
rising sun on his homeward road. Fifty miles away 
over the white expanse of prairie under the cold 
and glittering skies, Marjorie Farrar sat by the bed- 
side of her beloved daughter, praying ceaselessly for 
the safety of an equally beloved son now riding, for 
the first time in his brave young life, to prove his 
worthiness to bear the fathers name in headlong 
fight with a savage and skillful foe. 

And if ever a young fellow, wearer of the army 
blue, realized to the full extent the hopes and faith 
and fondness centered in him this night of nights, it 
was Will Farrar. Barely arrived by man’s estate, 
not yet a year out of the cadet coatee, with his 
mother, his sister, his sweetheart, all there at the old 
fort so long associated with his father’s name, with 
that name to maintain, and not only that, but with 
Malcolm Leale’s old troop as one man looking up to 
him as their leader, yet competent, down to the very 
last man, to note the faintest flaw should he fail 
them, the junior subaltern of the Twelfth, the 
‘‘plebe” lieutenant, as his elders laughingly spoke of 
him, found himself, as though some special provi- 
dence had swept from his path every possible barrier 
to danger and distinction, lifted suddenly to a com- 
mand that seldom falls to army subalterns to-day 
even within a dozen years, and bidden here and 
now to win his spurs for the honor of the old troop, 
the honor of th§ Twelfth, the honor of the name his 


268 


rOKT FRAYNE. 


father made famous, and that he must maintain — or 
die in trying to. All this, and God alone knows how 
much more besides, went thrilling through his very 
soul, as, on Farwell’s left and in utter silence, he 
rode swiftly onward at the head of the column. 
Leaving to his own first lieutenant the command of 
the grays. Captain Farwell had told him to follow 
close in the tracks of Farrar’s men, and, with only one 
of the Indian company to aid and no other guide of 
any kind but his senses and the stars, had j)laced 
himself in the lead and pushed forth into the night. 

‘‘Swing well out to the west,” were Fenton’s last 
orders. “Keep dark, as you know how. Head for 
the hills as soon as you’re sure you’re far beyond 
hearing, and try to strike those bluffs a couple of 
miles at least back of the mouth of the canon. You 
ought to get there ahead of the village. Halt it with 
a few men down in the gorge, but hold your main 
body on the bluffs. We’ll keep Big Road busy.” 

Luckily the stars were brilliant in the wintry sky, 
and the constellations out in all their glory. The 
pole star glowed high aloft and held them to their 
course. Out in the advance, lashing his horse with 
Indian whip to keep him to his speed, rode Brave 
Bear, a corporal of the Ogallalla company, side by 
side with Sergeant Bremmer. Whenever the drifts 
were deep in the ravines one of them would halt and 
warn the column to swerve to the right or left. 
Only a yard or two behind the two officers — Farwell, 
grizzled and stout, Farrar, fair and slender — came 
loping or trotting the leading four, and, though it 


FORT FRAYXF. 


269 


was not his accustomed place, there rode Terry Rorke, 
where, as he had explained to the satisfaction of the 
sergeant, he could be close to ‘Olasther Will.” The 
prairie was broad and open, and fairly level. There 
was no need of diminishing front. A platoon could 
have ridden abreast, and found no serious obstacle, 
except the snowdrifts in the deep coulees. Two 
miles to the west they sped, moving cautiously at first 
so as to give no inkling of their intent, and, for the 
first mile, almost doubling back upon their tracks, so 
as to keep well away from the Indian rear-guard. 

Then in long curve, Farwell led them toward the 
low, rolling hills, now dimly visible against the firm- 
ament, and presently the ravines began to grow 
deeper but farther apart, the slopes more abrupt and 
the westward hills loomed closer in their path, 
and still the snowy expanse showed unbroken, and 
Bear, bending low over his pony’s neck and watch- 
ing for sign, declared that no Indians had crossed as 
yet into the hills, and that the entrance to Elk Gulch 
was now not more then a mile co the north. And 
here the hills rolled higher, both to their front and 
toward the west, but Farwell rode on up a grad- 
ual ascent until the slope began to grow steep; then, 
dismounting, led the way afoot, the whole column 
rolling out of saddle and towing its horses in his 
track. Up, U23 they climbed until, breathing hard 
now, but pushing relentlessly on, the captain reached 
the crest, and faint and dim in the starlight, dotted 
here and there with little clumps of spruce or cedar, 
the rolling, billowy surface lay before him, shrouded 


270 


FORT FRAYNF. 


in its mantle of glistening snow. Leading on until 
the whole command had time to reach the top, he 
motioned Will to halt, while he, with Bear and Ser- 
geant Bremmer, pushed a few yards farther on. The 
column took a breathing spell and waited. 

Far out to the eastward and below them an occa- 
sional flash as of rifle or revolver sparkled through 
the night, and the faint report was presently borne 
to their listening ears. Big Road was still barring 
the way of the column then, and that meant that all 
the village was not yet safely within the grim walls of 
the canon. Northward the snowy slopes rolled higher 
still, but it was northwestward among the clumps of 
trees that the leaders had gone. The steam from the 
horses’ nostrils and from their heaving flanks rose on 
the keen air and the blood raced and tingled 
in the veins of the men. Not a whisper of mountain 
breeze was astir. The night was as still as the 
voiceless skies. Three — four minutes, with beating 
hearts, the little command watched and waited, and 
drew longer breath, and then a dark shape came jog- 
ging back from the front and Farwell’s voice said: 
“Mount and come on.” 

Then came fifteen minutes’ trot, winding snake- 
like and in long extended column of twos among the 
stunted trees, and then Farwell ordered “Walk,” 
for once more a dark form loomed up in their path, 
and Bremmer wheeled his horse about and rode by 
the captain’s side, eagerly explaining in low tone. 
Will caught the words, “ Right ahead. You can hear 
them distinctly, sir, ’’and for the life of him Will could 


FORT FRAYNS. 


271 


not quite control the flutter of his heart. ‘‘Halt! 
Dismount and wait here,” were the next orders, al- 
most whispered, and again Farwell pushed out to the 
front and again the column swung out of saddle, 
watched and waited, and presently men began to 
stamp about in the snow and thrash their stiffening 
fingers. 

“ Are we close to ’em now, Masther Will? ” asked 
old Terry unrebuked. 

“Right ahead, they say, corporal. But this, re- 
member, is only the women and children with a few 
of the old men.” 

“Ah, it’s your father’s son ye are, sorr — God rest 
his soul! If it was daytime, ye could almost see 
from here the breaks of the Mini Pusa, where we 
struck these Indians three years ago this cruel 
winter. 

“I know,” said Will, briefly, “and if — if it 
comes to fighting here, Rorke, remember father’s 
last order. It may be harder than ever to tell buck 
from squaw in so dim a light, but I want the men to 
heed it.” 

“They will, sorr, as they would if the captain 
himself was at their head, and Masther Will, for the 
love of heaven, wherever ye have to go this night 
let me be wan of thim that go wid ye if ye only 
take wan,” and there was a break in the old fellow’s 
voice, as he began his plea. 

“Hush, Rorke. We’ll see to that,” said Farrar. 
“Here comes the captain back!” And Farwell 
came with speed. 


2Y2 


FOET FEAYNE. 


<‘Mr. Farrar,” he said, an unmistakable tremor in 
his tone, ‘‘there’s not a moment to be lost. They 
are passing through the canon now. We can hear 
them plainly, but they have flankers out along the 
bluff. Two bucks rode by not a moment ago, and 
Bear says the whole outfit is pushing for the Race 
Track. I’ve got to head them off further up the 
gulch. Bear says we can get down in single file by 
an old game trail there, and I wish you to dismount 
right here, line this slope with your men, send at 
least a dozen down into the ravine, and stand off 
Big Road and his fellows while we corral that whole 
village and start it for home. They can’t tell how 
few you are in number, and Fenton will be close at 
their heels. Between you they ought to be forced to 
the north side, while I’m driving the village out to 
the south. You understand, do you not? It’s a 
fight in the dark, and they’re afraid of it, anyhow. 
You’ve got a splendid troop, lad, and they won’t fail 
you. Don’t be ashamed to ask your old sergeants 
for advice. You understand fully? ” 

“ I do,” said Will, stoutly, though his young heart 
was hammering in his breast. ‘ ‘ W e’ll do our best, 
sir. Form fours, sergeant, and link — lively,” he 
added, then grasped the captain’s hand one instant 
before the latter turned away. Silently, quickly, 
the men linked horses, and, leaving number four of 
each set in saddle, came running up to the front, un- 
slinging carbine on the way. Farwell and his fel- 
lows went trotting off among the clumps of pine as 
the last man fell in on the left. Then, quickly 


i’ORT FEAYNE. 


2^3 


dividing otf a dozen troopers from that flank, Will 
placed the first sergeant in charge and hade him find 
the way down the steep incline to the bottom of the 
gorge, which, there, was not more than two hundred 
and fifty feet below, giving him instructions to be 
ready to sweep it with their fire when the warriors 
came, as come they speedily must. Next, facing 
eastward, he deployed his men, causing them to 
stand or kneel in the shelter of the little trees, but 
to keep vigilant lookout. Another little squad was 
strung out down the face of the bluff, to keep con- 
nection with the men descending to the depths of 
the canon, and these preparations were barely com- 
pleted, when riding at rapid gait, two horsemen 
came, lashing up the eastward slope. The panting of 
the ponies could be heard before anything could be 
seen, but the instant the vague shapes appeared, two 
sudden shots rang out on the night and then a dozen 
— a sputtering volley— flashed from the line. 

Down went one pony, struggling and rolling in 
the snow. Away sped the other back into the 
blackness of the night. Then a dark object seemed 
to disengage itself from the struggling pony and go 
crouching and limjDing away. Two or three excited 
young soldiers banged their carbines without the 
faintest aim. Then it seemed as though the hill- 
sides woke to a wild revel of battle, for, behind 
them, far up the caiion there rose a wail of terror 
from the fleeing squaws and shouts of the few old 
braves left to guard them, resounding war whoops of 
younger Indians somewhere, anywhere, everywhere, 


FORT FRAYNE. 


274 

down the slopes to the east. Then a bright 
column of flame shot high in air over among the 
rocks to the north of the gate, and afar out over the 
eastward prairie Big Road and his braves came dash- 
ing, driving, thundering to the rescue. 

‘‘They’ll not try the gulch, sorr,” shouted Rorke. 
in his ear. “ Only a few will push in there, most 
of ’em will come this way and get around us to our 
right.” 

“Open out, men! Push out southward there as 
far as you can,” shouted Will, as he ran bounding 
through the snow toward the right of his invisible 
line. “Watch for them! They’ll come with a rush, 
when they come at all! ” 

And Rorke, whose business it was to remain with 
his “comrades in battle” where flrst he was 
posted near the brow of the steep, went running 
after his young commander as hard as he could go, 
with no man to stop him. 

In the excitement and darkness, in the thrill of 
the moment, some of the men seemed disposed to hud- 
dle together rather than to increase their intervals, for 
plainly now could be heard a dull thunder of hoofs 
— the roar of the coming, storm. Then, too, shad- 
owy spectres of horsemen could be dimly seen dart- 
ing into partial view and out again like the flash 
that greeted them. But far up the gorge, behind 
Farrar’s line the sound of battle grew flercer and 
louder. Then down from the depths of the canon 
there came sudden clamor of shot and cheer and 
challenge and yells of rage and defiance; and then 


FORT FRAYNR. 


275 


all on a sudden, out from among the stunted trees, 
with panting, struggling, bounding ponies, with 
lashing, bending, yelling braves, there burst upon 
them the main body of the Indians, three-score 
warriors at least, and, despite the ring of shots, on 
and through and over they rushed the slim and ex- 
tended skirmish line, and Will Farrar, springing 
for the shelter of a little cedar, was struck full in 
the breast by a muscular shoulder and knocked back- 
ward into the snow. He struggled to his feet, grop- 
ing for his revolver, just in time to meet the dash of 
half a dozen racing braves, all yelling like fiends. 
Something crashed upon his skull and struck a 
million sparks or stars, and everything whirled out 
of sight and sound and sense as the young officer 
went down, face foremost, into the drifts. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The Battle of the Ghosts” — so Big Road’s peo- 
ple called it, long months after — fought late at night 
and far up the slopes of the Elk range, was reported 
at Fort Frayne before the rising of another sun. 
The mysterious system of signaling which enabled 
the Indians of the reservations in Nebraska to know 
the details of the Custer massacre before they could 
be wired from Bismarck, was here in use again, and 
stragglers from the band far back at Trooper Creek, 
and even the cowboys and ranchmen carousing about 
Bunco Jim’s in honor of the triumph of their plans, 
knew all about Farwell’s overtaking the village, of 
Farrar’s desperate stand, and Wayne’s long gallop 
to their support before the first tidings were 
whispered within the silent walls across the stream, 
or even guessed at by the grim old soldier, rousing 
from his sleep barely ten miles from the seat of 
action. The first news to reach the garrison came 
from ‘‘Jimtown,” and was laughed to scorn by 
members of the guard. The next words went fear- 
fully along among the kitchens of Officers’ Row, and 
speedily reached the ears of the anxious wives and 
children of the soldiers in the field, and still the sur- 
geon left in charge at Frayne refused to believe the 
rumors and hastened to forbid that any one should 
speak of them where they could reach the ears of the 


FOET FRAYNEo 


277 

household of Farrar, for the croakers told of fell 
disaster and of the death of the last soldier of that 
honored name. 

But bad news travels fast, aud the direful tidings 
reached Lucretia Fenton’s ears while Kitty still 
slept the sleep of the young, the innocent and un- 
suspicious, and what Lucretia knew she could never 
conceal. The morning gun had failed to wake Will’s 
dainty ladylove; the trumpets rang no reveille, for 
there was no garrison to rouse, and only one trum- 
peter remained to sound the calls, but people were 
up and astir and hurrying from house to house long 
before the usual hour, and Marjorie Farrar, watch- 
ing by the bedside of her stricken daughter, heard 
with straining ears the excited tones of the servants 
at the back doors, and but for Helen Daunton’s 
vigilance would herself have gone to ascertain the 
cause. Stipulating that her friend should not go 
down stairs, Helen had hastened forth finding their 
own kitchen deserted, and, as the colonel’s house 
was but a few rods away, and Lucretia was there at 
the gate in vehement recitative with Mrs. Amory, 
and certain of the younger belles of the garrison as 
listeners, Helen hastened thither, only to see the 
party scatter at her approach. This in itself was 
ominous, but it was no time for hesitation. Some 
of the party were evidently in tears. The old chap- 
lain was rapidly approaching from his quarters on 
the westward side; the doctor, field glass in hand, 
was studying the snowy expanse to the north from 
the edge of the bluff. With him stood the sergeant 


278 


FORT FRAYNE. 


of the guard, and another non-commissioned officer 
was hastening toward him up the sentry post of 5. 
It was to them she appealed, and in their faces she 
read the first intimation of ill news. 

The doctor turned, as though he had been expect- 
ing her, and held forth his hand. “I am glad you 
are here,” he said, ‘‘for I have reason to disbelieve 
the news that has been frittering in ever since dawn, 
but I wish it kept from Mrs. Farrar as long as pos- 
sible.” 

Helen’s face had turned white as the snow. He 
saw it and drew her arm within his own. “Strag- 
glers from Big Road’s band say — those that were 
left at Trooper Creek, at least — that there was a fight 
last night. Part of the village was captured, and 
part of the band broke through and got away. The 
Indians claim to have killed several of our people, 
but they are the biggest boasters on the face of the 
globe. The cowboys over yonder believe it, because 
they hate Fenton and the Twelfth, and wouldn’t be 
sorry to have them worsted, because that would 
bring on a big war and lots of troops. We would 
have heard it by this time, in some way, had there 
been serious disaster.” 

“But, doctor. Miss Fenton and others with her 
hastened away when they saw me coming, and they 
were in tears.” 

“Oh, they’ve got hold of some silly story that the 
servants have been gabbling, and that I’ve tried to 
test, that Farrar is among the injured. It all comes 
from that vile roost over there,” said he scowling 


FORT FRAYNE. 


279 


malignantly at ‘‘Jimtown.” ‘‘No! don’t you 
give way, Mrs. Daunton,” he continued, as she 
seemed to shiver and tremble. “I shall need all 
your strength if there be trouble coming. But, if 
my opinion is not sufficient, let me tell you what 
Captain Leale thinks. He says that the Indians 
wouldn’t fight in the dark except at long range, and 
the story is that Will was tomahawked. Keep every- 
thing from her, therefore, for the present. Colonel 
Fenton will be here by noon.” 

“Keep everything from her, doctor! A mother 
reads faces as you do books. No one can conceal 
from Mrs. Farrar that ill news is in the air, and that 
it is of her boy. Is there no way we can find the 
truth? Anything, almost, would be better than sus- 
pense!” she cried, with breaking voice. 

“I know of none, my poor friend,” he gently an- 
swered. “All over there at the settlement is riot 
and confusion. They believe everything and know 
nothing. It may be hours before we can get details, 
for the Indians say the fight took place away in 
among the hills through Elk Springs canon, over 
fifty miles north of us, and the telegraph line from 
Laramie to the old p^ost follows the stage road from 
Fetterman far to the east. If any reports, however, 
had gone in by way of Laramie they would surely 
have been repeated up here for our benefit.” 

And just then a man came hurrying to them from 
the line of officers’ quarters. It was Leale’s attend- 
ant. “The captain says, sir, that he thinks if you 


280 


FORT FRAYNE. 


wire thiough Laramie they will be having news by 
this time at Buffalo or McKinney stage stations.” 

“That was like Leale,” thought the doctor, “and 
he must have heard she was here with me.” “It’s 
worth trying,” he said, aloud. “Will you go with 
me to the office?” 

“I must. I cannot return to her — with such news 
as I have heard.” And so, together, they hastened 
over the snowy parade, and Marjorie Farrar, watch- 
ing from the dormer window of Ellis’s little room, 
saw them and read the motive of their going. 

Ten minutes later a dramatic scene occurred in 
that shabby little office — one that Frayne has not yet 
ceased to tell of, and will long remember.. Kurtz, 
the operator, was clicking away at his instrument as 
the doctor entered. “I’ve got Laramie, sir, now,” 
he answered in response to the first question asked 
him, “and he says Buffalo knows nothing yet. The 
first news ought to come through the stage station 
near Allison’s ranch. Colonel Fenton was over there 
last night, but nothing has been heard this morning. 
The operatpr is there now.” 

“Wire to him, then! Urge him to find out 
whether there was a fight in the hills — whether Colo- 
nel Fenton is still at Allison’s, and get any authentic 
news he can and send it here at once.” 

And even as Kurtz began clicking his message 
there was some sudden check, an eager light shot 
into his face, an expression of keen, intense interest. 
He let go his key and sat listening to the quick 
beating of the tiny hammer of the instrument, theu 


FORT FRAYNE. 


281 


tseized a pencil and began to write just as a faltering 
step was heard on the creaking woodwork of the 
piazza. The door burst open, and in, with wild 
eyes and disheveled hair, a heavy cloak thrown 
about her, but without overshoes, without gloves, all 
oblivious to the bitter cold, Marjorie Farrar rushed 
in upon them. 

‘‘Tell me instantly,” she began; but the doctor, 
an inspiration seizing him as he read the operator’s 
face, turned with uplifted hand, with reassuring 
smile as Helen opened her arms to receive her friend. 
There was a moment more of breathless, harrowing 
suspense, of swift clicking at the table, of swift 
skimming pencil, and then Kurtz sprang to his feet 
and placed in Mrs. Farrar’s trembling hand the yel- 
low brown sheet. With eyes that seemed starting 
from their sockets, she read. Then, with one glad 
cry, “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” threw herself 
on Helen’s breast. The doctor seized the fluttering 
paper ere it reached the floor and read aloud: 

“My congratulations on Will’s gallant bearing in 
his maiden flght. He merits the name he bears. 
Expect us home to-morrow night, very hungry. 

George Fenton.” 

But that was only a part of the story. 

What Leale said was true enough. The Indians 
would not fight in the dark except at long range but 
that did not prevent their taking advantage of the 
dark for a sudden rush that would enable them to 
burst through what they well knew could only be a 
thin and widely dispersed line. It was easier to do 


282 


FORT FRAYNE. 


it in the dark, as the warriors well knew, than in 
broad daylight, and so, learning from their vigilant 
scouts about where Farrar’s men were deployed, 
they rode forward in noiseless array until close upon 
them, then at given signal, and with full understand 
ing that no one was to stop for anything, they 
dashed forward over the snow at headlong speed. 
The few shots fired whizzed by their ears without 
checking them in the least, though two Sioux saddles, 
by great good luck, were emptied, and when the pony 
of one low-bending warrior collided with Farrar and 
keeled him over, others following behind raced 
through just as he was scrambling to his feet, and 
one of the riders had struck wildly with his war 
club at the dark object and downed it again. The 
whole band was out of sight in less time than it takes 
to tell it. The crash and sputter of hoofs could be 
heard as they thundered away and then the loud 
crackling of rifle and revolver, as the band reached 
the descent to the canon farther to the West and 
found Farwell’s led horses on the bluff. 

It was then as the sergeants were raising Will, 
stunned and bleeding, to his feet that they realized 
not an instant must be lost in hastening to 
Farwell’s aid, and, while one bathed with snow the 
aching, bewildered head, and another gave the 
young officer water from his canteen, a third helped 
place the boy in saddle and gave the word to the 
men to follow. Another minute and Leale’s men, 
led by their lieutenant — grasping at the pommel, all 
the same, to steady himself in his seat — went charg- 


FORT FRAYNE. 


283 


ing through the wooded highland and tumbled in on 
Farwell’s assailants just in the nick of time. With 
every minute Will was reviving and pulling himself 
together again, and by the time Wayne and his 
fellows came riding in to their support through the 
fire-spitting clumps of evergreen, the boy was shout- 
ing his orders and cheering his men as though no 
blow had ever downed him. But Wayne’s coming 
relieved him of all responsibility on that side, se- 
cured Farwell in his grasp on the village, and when 
at last Big Road’s sullen, beaten braves slunk away 
through the timber, leaving the greater part of the 
village, women, children, old folks, and a few dis- 
gusted warriors in the hands of the troops. Will’s 
frantically aching head reminded him that he was in 
need of attention, and then it was discovered that he 
was literally bathed in blood, and it was time for 
him to faint from the loss of it. 

Heavens! what a to-do there was at Frayne when 
that boy was brought home with the setting of the 
second sun thereafter, his head bandaged and his 
shoulder sore and his hurts severe, and yet Avith the 
record that despite it all, he had fought his troop 
like a veteran — ^4ike a Farrar.” Fenton handed 
him over to his mother, after their long ride in the 
ambulance sent out to meet them, and went on by first 
train to comply with his orders, and Marjorie took 
her boy to her rejoicing arms, forgetful for the mo- 
ment of Fenton, of Kitty, of all else in the world. 

And then, in a few days more, came the major 
back with his squadron and his recaptured village, 


284 


FORT FRAYNE. 


and more than half the recalcitrant braves, tired of 
their mid-winter spree and quite ready to be taken back 
to Abraham’s bosom, to be forgiven, and, what was 
more to the purpose, feasted. And by this time 
Will was well enough to be out again and to ride to 
meet them, and to welcome Wayne with especial en- 
thusiasm, for the major had reinforced his ragged 
line just in time to save him from another rush such 
as had burst it and downed him on the slopes a mile 
to the east, and Kitty, no longer imperious sweet- 
heart, but devoted love, had found it high time to 
take no further chances, and so had named the clay, and 
had amazed the dreamy major by her declaration 
that she would be married only where Uncle Fenton 
could give her away and Major Wayne, who had 
‘‘ saved her Willy,” could be best man. There was 
one blissful episode, therefore, in that sad and sombre 
winter. 

But so far as our friends the Farrars were con- 
cerned, it was about the only one. Not until the 
day after honest Fenton had gone did it occur to 
Mrs. Farrar to inquire how and why it was the 
colonel left the command and spent that night at 
Allison’s ranch, and then as the story was unfolded 
by Will, her sympathy and indignation knew no 
bounds. Even at such a time, when wounded and 
maligned, when robbed of his command at the very 
moment when it was dearest to him and when he 
must have been burning with eagerness to face and 
confound his accusers, Fenton had turned back to 
learn the truth about the fight at Elk Canon and wire to 


FRAYNE. 


285 


her — to her — the glad news of her boy’s safety, the 
proud news of his spirited and soldierly behavior. 
If Fenton could have seen her emotion when from 
Wayne and Will she learned the whole story, he 
would have found his trials easier to bear. 

He had gone, however, to department headquart- 
ers, and there his accusers were missing; not one re- 
mained to face him, and when called upon to sub- 
stantiate their statements, as they had eagerly de- 
clared their readiness to do, one and all, they had 
business elsewhere. The chief conspirators had 
achieved in part, at least, the ends for which they 
were striving — a row with Big Road’s band that 
would enable them to get square with White Wolf, 
Pretty Bear, and the other alleged assailants of Pete 
Boland, replenish their stock of ponies and other spoils 
of Indian war, and double the price of forage, and 
though the alleged murderers escaped them, and the 
village in great part fell into the hands of the 
Twelfth, and Fenton came back from headquarters a 
vindicated man, still they had given him and his reg- 
iment far more trouble than the regiment had ever 
caused them, so honors were more than easy. ‘ ^ W e’ve 
lamed the old man not to monkey with the cowboy 
again. ” 

There was a sweet, womanly, grateful note await- 
ing the colonel when, after an absence of a fortnight, 
he returned to Frayne, but the Farrars were gone. 
The doctor had said they could not too soon move 
Ellis, once she could be moved at all, to southern 
California, and with a month’s leave in his pocket, 


2B6 


FORT FRAYNF. 


thither had Will escorted them, Kitty going too, as 
a matter of course. Jack Ormshy came West once 
"more to meet Malcolm Leale, and to tenderly con- 
duct him, sightless and suffering, to New York, and 
Fenton felt that vengeance indeed had been wrought 
by Thorpe and that the Lord had been with the Phil- 
istines across the stream, for the light had gone out 
of his life, and smiles and sunshine seemed to have 
vanished from Fort Frayne. Will came back in Feb- 
ruary and threw himself enthusiastically into his 
duties with his troop, and Wayne went mooning 
night after night to the colonel’s fireside, and Terry 
Rorke, crippled with a rheumatic twinge about an 
old bullet hole, was limping and growling about the 
post, and Fenton prayed for the coming of spring 
and sunshine and June and roses, for Kitty had 
still another freak — she would be married only from 
under the shadow of the flag and Uncle Fenton’s 
roof. With Ellis better, but still not well, the Far- 
rars and Kitty had taken the ‘‘Sunset Route” from 
Monterey to New Orleans the end of March and 
reached Gotham just as the buds were opening in the 
park; and Wayne, East on leave on some mysterious 
mission, called to welcome them home and to say 
that Ormsby was to sail at once with Malcolm Leale, 
who was to go to Germany to consult an eminent 
oculist, and Ellis lost the color which was fluttering 
in her cheeks when they hove in sight of the familiar 
landmarks of the beautiful harbor, and Helen 
Daunton strove to conquer her own disappointment 
that she might comfort the poor girl, who, since the 




28 ? 


tragic night of her brother’s death, had neither seen 
nor heard from the lover she had rebuffed and 
wronged, even though here and now she had written, 
admitting her sin against him and humbly yet con- 
fidently asking his forgiveness. That was Thursday 
night, and there was ample time, but he sailed on 
Saturday with never a word. 


CHAPTER XX. 


June had come, a radiant June, and all at Frayne 
was joyous anticipation, despite the momentous fact 
that the Platte had overlea23ed its bounds and was 
raging like some mad mountain torrent far as the eye 
could see. The flats to the west of the post were one 
broad, muddy lake. The grassy bench beneath the 
bluffs to the east was partially torn away. Part of 
Bunco Jim’s frontier stronghold still clung to the op- 
posite bank, but some of it was distributed in drift- 
wood long leagues down stream. Across the river, at 
a point half a mile above the ruin of the ferry house, 
a troop of cavalry, caught on return from scout, had 
pitched its tents and picketed its horses, and was 
waiting for the falling of the waters to enable it to 
return to its station, and with that troop, the maddest 
man in all Wyoming, was Lieutenant Will Farrar. 

Six or seven weeks previously an order had* come 
to Fenton to send two troops to scout the western 
slopes of the Big Horn and keep the peace between 
the settlers and the Shoshones. Time was when these 
latter rarely ventured across the Big Horn River, 
partly through fear of the Sioux, who claimed sov- 
ereignty over all the lands east of the Shoshone 23re- 
serves in the Wind River Valley, partly through re- 
gard for the orders of their loyal old chief, Washakie, 
who for long, long years of his life, had kept faith 
288 


FORT FRAYNE. 


289 


with the Great White Father, held his people in 
check and suffered the inevitable consequences of 
poverty and neglect; the ]3olicy of the Indian Bureau 
being to load with favors only those of its wards who 
defy it and deal death to the whites. Settlers seldom 
encroach upon the Sioux, those gentry being abund- 
antly able and more than willing to take care of them- 
selves, but the Shoshones had known long years of 
enervating peace, and, being held in subjection by 
their chief, became the natural prey of the whites, 
who mistook subordination for subservience, — as is 
natural to free-born Americans and as easily adopted 
by fellow-citizens of foreign birth — and who soon be- 
gan to encroach on their own account, stealing Sho- 
shone crops and cattle and promptly accusing the 
army officer, on duty as agent, of cattle stealing and 
all-round rascality when he reseized the captured 
stock. Then, while this badgered official was de- 
fending himself in court, the Shoshones had to de- 
fend themselves in the field, and that peripatetic 
buffer between the oppressor and the oppressed, the 
corporations and the cranks, the law and the lawless 
— the much-bedeviled army — was sent out as usual to 
receive the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune 
and of both parties. Finding it difficult to swindle 
the Shoshones so long as their new agent — the army 
agent — remained in power, the obvious thing was 
to down him by misrepresentation at Washington, 
and, if that didn’t work, by deft manipulation of the 
local law. Of course they didn’t expect to prove him 
guilty of anything, but there was no law against 


290 


FORT FRAYNE. 


lying, and they could compel him to come into court 
and prove himself innocent, and leave his unarmed 
wards to the mercy of the settler in the meantime, 
and so it happened that there were high jinks up the 
Wind River Valley and along those wonderful ranges 
in the wild valleys of the Gray Bull, the Meeyero, 
the Meeteetsee, north of the Owl Creek Mountains, 
and, the cavalry having long since been withdrawn 
from that section, that was how the detail fell on old 
Fort Frayne. 

“You can straighten matters out in a month,” 
said the commanding officer to Major Wayne, who 
had hastened back from the East to take command, 
and when it came to selecting the troops to go, even 
though it lacked less than two months to his wed- 
ding day. Will Farrar gloried in the fact that his 
was one of them. It is hard to conceive of a lot in 
which a spirited, soldierly fellow of twenty-one could 
possibly be happier than commanding a troop of cav- 
alry on an expedition through so glorious a country. 
Amory’s troo]) and Leale’s were designated, and, the 
latter captain being still in Berlin and the senior 
subaltern on staff duty in the East, Farrar was his 
own captain and troop commander, and, despite the 
troubles of the Christmas season, long since buried 
so far as he was concerned, just about the happiest 
fellow that wore the army blue. 

The exj)edition had proved even longer than w^as 
planned, but at last, while Wayne with Amory and 
the recaptured cattle and rounded-up Shoshones went 
over the Owl Creek Mountains to render account of 


I’ORT FRAYNU. 


291 


tis stewardshi]? at Fort Washakie, Will was told to 
make the best of his way homeward with his own 
command, and, marching leisurely along in the radiant 
spring mornings, through a country unmatched for 
wild beauty in all America; shooting, fishing, plung- 
ing in mountain streams, sleeping dreamlessly in the 
open air by night, they reached the valley of the 
Platte toward mid June. The blessed landmark of 
the Eagle Buttes came in sight one peerless morning. 
The blue summits of the Medicine Bow loomed up 
across the horizon to the southeast. The flag-tipped 
bluffs of old Fort Frayne would greet their eyes be- 
fore the close of to-morrow’s march, and so they did 
— but with a raging torrent tearing at their base, 
and this was Monday, and less than forty-eight hours 
to Will’s wedding day. 

Meanwhile, there had been a partial reunion within 
the walls of the fort, and already a joyous bevy of 
army folk had gathered in anticipation of the June 
wedding with Kitty Ormsby as the center of attrac- 
tion, since she was the colonel’s niece, and he was to 
give her away, and Wayne was to be best man, by 
order of the bride, provided he didn’t get things 
mixed in his own inimitable way and turn up unex- 
jDectedly at some one else’s affair, as he did the night 
of the Willett’s dinner to Captain and Mrs. Billy ” 
Ray of the — th, where, with army bonhomie, a seat 
was squeezed in close beside that of the winsome 
guest of the evening, and where he was charmingly 
welcomed and made at home despite the fact, which 
dawned upon him only with the champagne, that he 


292 


I'ORT TRAYNE. 


was due at the Amorys’, where a similar function 
was being held in honor of the Truscotts of the same 
regiment, then on the march from Kansas to Montana. 
‘‘You’ll rue it, Kitty, that ever you insisted on my 
having Wayne for best man,” wrote poor Will, with 
prophetic but unavailing protest. “Wayne saved 
my Willy,” was the positive rejoinder, and no one but 
Wayne would do. “All right,” said Will, “ if you 
find, years later, that there’s been some fatal flaw in 
the proceedings, don’t blame me.” 

But here, on this glad June morning, all sunshine 
and serenity aloft, all perturbation at the post, all 
raging river about it, it looked as though the proceed- 
ings themselves would be delayed, and that instead 
of a military wedding in the post chapel at high 
noon, with everybody en grande tenue^ there would be 
no wedding at all, even though Will, like a modern 
Leander, swam this wild Western Hellespont in 
search of his bride. Far away to the east the floods 
had swept their battering ram of logs and trees and 
dashed it against the bridge abutments at the rail- 
way, and though the Farrars were safely here, and 
had been for several days, Kitty’s train, that which 
bore her and Jack on their westward way, had been 
brought up standing long miles toward Cheyenne, 
and there was no telling when the passengers could 
be transferred to the waiting cars upon the hither 
shore. And so, each believing the other in waiting 
at the post, bride and groom elect woke to their wed- 
ding morn to rail at fate. It would have been some 
comfort could they have known that, though miles 


FORT FRAYNE. 


293 


apart, they were at least on the same side of the 
stream that swept between them and the altar of 
their hopes. 

And there was deep anxiety under the roof where 
once again the Farrars Avere installed, for the 
mother was possessed with the fear that Willy would 
be mad enough to try to swim the stream, and though 
Fenton had had his signal men out forbidding any 
such attempt, no acknowledgment had been received 
to the eifect that the repeated message was under- 
stood. An Indian, who thought he could cross at 
Casper Rocks, several miles up stream, was swept 
from his pony and only saved by the strength of his 
horsehair lariat. A scow that was launched at the 
bend was battered to flinders, and bottle after bottle, 
corked and slung long yards out into the steam, 
went bobbing derisively away, carrying its penciled 
contents with them. Arrows, with silken strings 
attached, dropped helplessly in the stream. Bullets, 
similarly tethered, snapped their frail attachments 
and whistled over the opposite shore and told no tale 
other than that of anxiety. Every fieldglass at the 
post, when brought to bear, revealed Farrar at nine 
o’clock of his bridal morning striding and probably 
swearing up and down the bank, tugging at his tiny 
moustache and sprouting beard, and possibly threaten- 
ing self-destruction. It was a thrilling scene. 

Then many other people seemed burdened with 
troubles of their own. Ellis had never recovered 
either strength or spirits since the events of that 
Christmas week, and her lovely face was thin, and 


294 


FORT FRAYNE. 


the bright, brave eyes of old were shadowed with a 
pathetic sorrow, but, though this shadow had come 
into her life, another one, much harder to bear, had 
been swept aside. Ever since her lover’s words had 
revealed to Ellis that it was her own brother to save 
whom Malcolm Leale had periled life and lost his 
sight, the girl’s eyes seemed gradually to open to the 
utter cruelty of her suspicions, the injustice of her 
treatment of Helen Daunton, the woman whose life 
that very brother had well-nigh wrecked forever. In 
the long hours of her convalescence she had turned 
to Helen in humility that was sweet to see, and . now 
the love and trust between them was something in- 
expressible. But there was something even Helen 
could neither explain nor justify, and that was Jack 
Ormsby’s conduct since her convalescence. 

True, Ellis had told him in their last interview 
that all was at an end between them, that he had 
forfeited trust, faith, and even respect, and placed 
a barrier between himself and her forever. She had 
refused him further audience, and her last words to him 
had been full of scorn, even of insult. But no word 
of anger or resentment had escaped him, and surely 
no man who deeply loved would harbor anger now. 
Sobbing her heart out, the girl had thrown herself 
on Helen’s breast just before their return to Frayne, 
and told a part of her story until then concealed, 
how, in their last interview, Ormsby had gently 
said that he would vex her no more with his plead- 
ings, but if a time should ever come when her eyes 
were opened and when 3he could believe him honest 


FORT FRAYNE. 


295 


and worthy, he would come at her call, and she had 
humbled herself and called, but all in vain. To 
Helen she had told the whole story of that humble 
letter, and that neither by word or sign had he 
acknowledged it. 

But Helen saw a ray of hope. The little note had 
been intrusted to Wayne late that Thursday night, 
and he had promised to deliver it early Friday 
morning, and all that day had Ellis waited eagerly, 
and nightfall came without the looked-for visit. 
Wayne came on Saturday to convey some conven- 
tional words of farewell from both officers — ^‘so 
surprised to hear of the sudden return from Cali- 
fornia, so sorry not to have seen them, but time was 
very short, ” and — would she never hear the last of 
the Seventh? — Ormsby had had to attend the review 
at the armory Friday night, and then there was just 
time to rejoin Leale and get him aboard, for their 
good ship sailed at 7 a. m. to catch the early tide 
at Sandy Hook. Falteringly Ellis had asked if 
he were sure he had given Ormsby her note — if — if 
Mr. Ormsby had read it. Wayne was quite posi- 
tive. 

But Helen would not believe, and, with unabated 
hope, she awaited Wayne’s return to the post. They 
arrived a week before him, for on leaving his charge 
at Washakie the previous month he had hurried 
straight to Washington in response to a summons 
from the Secretary of War, had made his report, 
and then gone to New York. Not until the Monday 
before tbe wedding did he reappear, and then only 


296 


FOET FKAYNE. 


by determined effort did Helen corner him long 
enough for cross-examination. ‘ ‘ Certainly, ’ ’ . said 
Wayne. I remember the note perfectly well. I 
put it with one from the club that I found there and 
handed both to him together. He’ll be here to the 
wedding. He’s coming right along with Kitty. I’ll 
ask him again, if you like.” 

Don’t dare ever mention it, major; or that I 
asked any questions concerning it. How long has 
he been back? ” asked Helen, with vivid interest, 
another question uppermost in her mind. 

‘‘Not a week. Just back, you know. I only 
saw him a minute. I was just starting for the train. 
He looked astonishingly well, and — you know — I 
forgot to ask was Leale better. He was full of his 
wedding preparations.” 

“ Her wedding preparations — Kitty’s — you mean, 
do you not, major? ” 

“No, his; I give you my word. He said so, you 
know. He told me the lady’s name — part of it, at 
least — Effie something. I can’t recall it just now. 
He’ll tell you. Oh, it was all on that account, you 
know, Kitty couldn’t start sooner. She had to wait 
for him.” 

Helen was astounded. It was news she declared 
she would never believe, and yet she remembered 
having heard mention of an attractive cousin, a Miss 
Effie Leale, and might it not have been possible that, 
in his wanderings — with the blinded invalid — with 
his own sore heart, J ack Ormsby had met and found 
consolation in this fair relative of his stricken friend 


FORT FRAYNE. 


297 


— that she in turn had quickly learned to admire the 
manly fellow who was so devoted to their particular 
hero? At all events, it was something not to be 
mentioned to Ellis, said Helen. 

But what was the use! Wayne told it to Lucre tia; 
Lucre tia to a dozen during the day. It was all over 
the post before night, and despite Helen’s effort, 
Ellis heard it among the first. One more among the 
many mishaps with which to usher in Will’s wedding 
day! 

At ten that beautiful June morning there was 
something more than pathetic about poor Lucretia’s 
sorrows. While Fenton, Mrs. Farrar, Helen, silent, 
brave-faced Ellis, and a dozen sympathetic souls 
from all over the post were gathered on the north 
piazza overhanging the bluff and the roaring waters 
of the Platte, signaling to Will and watching eagerly 
his vigorous movements, the lady of the house re- 
mained within doors, wept unceasingly, and refused 
to be comforted. 

‘Ht is dreadful to think of the condition that 
chicken salad will be in,” she moaned. ‘Ht is pre- 
posterous to talk to me of patience! I’ve said all along 
it was to be an unlucky day, because you all know 
perfectly well — at least if you don’t, you ought to — 
that it is just thirteen years ago this day we were all 
gathered at Fort Crook for the funeral of Captain 
Crocus, which was to take place the moment the 
ambulance got in from the front, and the band was 
all ready — and the escort and the hearse — and — and 
after all the whole thing had to be abandoned, for 


298 


FORT FEAYNE. 


when the ambulance got in there were no remains at 
all — at least there were, but they weren’t ready for 
burial because they’d revived and were sitting up 
and saying shocking things. Why, I think a wed- 
ding without a bride is ten times worse than a funeral 
without a — without a — ” 

But here, it must be admitted, the burst of laugh- 
ter in which Rorke indulged was too much for her 
determination to weep and, blazing through her 
tears, the maiden demanded explanation of his un- 
seemly conduct. Rorke was a permanent member 
of the colonel’s establishment now, but he could not 
risk Miss Lucretia’s displeasure, and was wise and 
knew his danger, and fled to the kitchen, there to 
tell cook and Chinaman the lady’s plaintive mono- 
logue, while Amory, equally conscienceless, ran out 
to convulse with it the party on the porch. And 
then, in the midst of all the laughter, came delirious 
news from the ‘‘best man” sent to meet the bride 
and Ormsby at the Station and break to them the 
direful news that “the bridegroom was late.” The 
train had passed Fetterman Bend. The bride would 
be there in twenty minutes. 

And she came— and what a scene there was! And 
how she was hugged and kissed and mauled and 
pulled about, and how she strove to tell of her tribu- 
lations and could not for the volume of welcome, 
exclamation and interrogation; and, not until trunks, 
boxes, and what alls had been whisked away to her 
room aloft and somebody said it was almost eleven 


FOET FEAYNE. 


299 


o’clock, did she find breath and opportunity to say, 
‘^Gracious Heavens! And I’m to be married at noon! 
And not a thing done yet! Why! Wh — where’s 
Willy?” 

Aghast, they looked at one another. Was not all 
this to have been explained by Wayne? Hadn’t 
Wayne told her? Told her? Told her what? All 
Major Wayne said to her about Willy was that he 
was almost frantic with impatience to meet her, but 
he’d — he’d have to take his bath first. What did he 
mean by sending such riduculous stuff? What were 
they all laughing — crying at? Isn’t here^. Couldn’t 
cross'^ Can’t he swim? Why! the man she thought 
he was would swim Niagara rather than miss his 
wedding day! And then — oh day of days! — perhaps 
her words annihilated space and reached the ears of 
the maddened lover, for at the very moment came 
an Irish howl from the porch without. ‘‘Oh, fur 
the luv of God! shtop him! Don’t let him! Oh, 
Mother of Moses, it’s drownin’ he is! ” And then, 
all shrieks and terror, did most of the party scatter 
for the balconies, while, all shrieks and terror and 
protestations that she’d never speak to him again if 
he dared to, Kitty collapsed upon a sofa. 

Was ever there a wedding day to match it? 
Soaked to the skin, dripping but triumphant, Will 
Farrar rode out of the fioods and up the heights, 
amid the frenzied acclamations of the garrison, and, 
throwing himself from saddle at the colonel’s gate 
demanded to see — if not to squeeze — his bride. There 


300 


FOET FKAYNE. 


were they gathered — the elite of Fort Frayne — some 
in wedding garb, some in traveling dress, and what a 
cheer went up as he sprang to the porch, and his 
mother wanted to clasp him, dripping though he 
was, to her heart of hearts. Not so Kitty. ‘‘ Don’t 
you come near me, you dreadful thing!” she cried. 
And, laughing and protesting, he was led away, to 
be caparisoned for the ceremony. Lucretia’s spirits 
were once more in ebullition. Wayne was back; the 
remains had come, so why longer delay — proceed- 
ings? 

They were not. There was as blithe and bright 
and joyous a soldier wedding that perfect noon day 
as ever was seen within the walls of old Fort Frayne, 
and Kitty made a bewitching bride and there was a 
wonderful unloading of sorrow from heart after 
heart onto the shoulders of one luckless, sorely-tried 
man — Major Percival Wayne. Oh, Mad Anthony! 
but here was one of thy descendents ten times worthy 
thy name! In that one day there came crushing in 
upon him the consequences of a generation of mis- 
doing. 

It was enough that he should have failed to ex- 
plain matters to Kitty. It was worse when he took 
the first opportunity to explain matters to Jack. 
His way of doing it was somewhat as follows, and 
they were dressing for the ceremony, and Jack — 
gorgeous in his full-dress uniform as a lieutenant of 
the Seventh, was sick at heart over the cold, con- 
strained greeting accorded him by Ellis. 

“Why, of course, old fellow, you didn’t impose 


B’OItT FRAYKi:. 


SOI 


silence on me, and I s’pose I let out about your en- 
gagement — ” 

‘‘My what?” says poor Jack, aghast. 

“Your engagement. You said, even to attend 
Kitty’s wedding, you couldn’t get away until yours 
was fulfilled — on the 10th, wasn’t it? ” 

“ Certainly — our annual inspection. No man in 
the Seventh would miss that for love or money.” 

“ But, Jack, don’t you know? I’m sure you told 
me a lady was in the case. You told me her name, 
and — indeed, you did — that Effie and you were to be 
tied — ” 

“You transcendental idiot! I told you “F” and 
“I” — Company “F ” and Company “I” — were tied 
for place, and neither dare lose a point. ” 

And then, instead of smashing Wayne, as was his 
first thought, Jack fied down stairs in search of Ellis 
and found her, and told her Wayne’s story, and then 
his own, breathlessly, eagerly, im]3loringly, and 
there were blushes and tears and soft laughter, and 
soft, happy murmurs, and — and how horribly those 
big epaulets get in the way, and service medals and 
sautache braid scratch at such times! And at last 
did Jack uplift his voice again to say: “Ellis, I’m in 
heaven!” and then did she uplift a blushing, tear- 
stained, kiss-rumpled face to archly inquire, “A 
Seventh heaven. Jack? ” and then did old Fenton come 
blustering in to take a veteran’s share in the engage- 
ment. It was known all over the house before the 
wedding party started. 

Then came the next scene in Mad Anthony’s play. 


302 


^’OET FEAYKfi. 


Amoiy and the chaplain declare to this day that 
when the party was duly marshaled at the altar the 
major clicked his heels together and raised his hand 
in salute, and began: Sir, the parade is — ” when 
Ormsby caught the hand and brought it down, but 
when it came to the ring there was consternation. 
To the horror of the groom, the despair of the bride, 
but to the marked and tremulous emotion of Aunt 
Lucretia, the circlet produced for the occasion by the 
dazed best man was an old-fashioned, but beautiful, 
cluster of flashing gems. Only by a miracle did it 
happen that the other ring was in his possession. 
How the mixture occurred there was no time to tell, 
until later, when all were gathered, for there were 
two whose fortunes we have followed through these 
long, long chapters, who were absent from the cere- 
mony — who, in fact, were having one of their own, 
and to these two, while the band without is softly 
playing in front of the chapel, and in eager hundreds 
the men are gathered to cheer the bride and groom on 
their reappearance, let us turn — and listen. 

‘‘No, dear Mrs. Farrar,” were Helen Daunton’s 
words as the eager guests were pouring forth to the 
wedding. ‘ ‘ They are bringing him here — even now 
— so that he may welcome Will and Kitty on their 
return from the wedding he cannot see.” 

And no sooner was the party fairly at the chapel 
than there drove to the colonel’s door the old Concord, 
and two soldiers assisted to alight and led to the 
doorway the soldierly form of Captain Leale — his eyes 
still covered by the deep green shade. It was Helen 


FORT FRAYNF. 


303 


Daunton’s hand that guided him into the lately 
crowded parlor, and he knew the touch and thrilled 
with the joy of it. 

‘‘Helen!” he cried. “They told me all were 
gone. What a blessed welcome! I’ve been so long 
in exile! With your voice, the old home feeling I’ve 
been groping for comes to me through the dark.” 

“Then — it is still dark with you? ” she faltered. 

There was a moment’s pause. The band had just 
ceased the joyous march with which it had “trooped” 
the wedding party into the chapel, and then, as 
though in accompaniment to the ceremony just begin- 
ning and to the sweet romance already throbbing 
here, the exquisite strains of the “Traeumerei ” softly 
thrilled upon the fragrant air. 

“Helen! ” he spoke, his deep voice trembling as 
did the hand that still clung to hers. “You know 
that for me the lights went out before ever that 
powder-flash crossed my eyes. ” She strove, hardly 
knowing why, to release her hand. “No, dear,” he 
went on gently. “ Don’t be afraid I have come back 
to vex you with my sorrows; but listen, they will all 
be here in a moment. I went away hoping to teach 
my heart a friendship for you that should give me 
the right to come again and serve you as your friend. 
When I found that it was almost sure that I should 
walk in darkness all my life, I said: ‘ Now at least I 
can accept the blessing of her friendship — even as 
she offered it to me. ’ A man maimed and set apart 
from his fellows can learn thankfulness for a great 
good, though it is not his heart’s desire.” And here 


304 


FORT FRAYKE. 


her graceful head was bowed and silently her tears 
came gushing forth. “ But time has taught me the 
falsity of that,” he went on, firmly now. “You 
shall never misunderstand me. Even in the dark my 
pulse-heat gave the lie to friendship. I loved you! 
I love you, and so — have come to say a long good-by. 
I’ve made my fight to be your friend — and failed. 
At least I have been a soldier. I will not be a 
coward. ” 

She could control herself no longer. Though she 
had freed her hands, she seemed involuntarily 
stretching them forth. Then, leaning upon the table 
for support, one hand found the glove that he had 
removed and laid there. He had withdrawn a pace 
and lifted his head as though the blighted eyes were 
striving to peer from under their shade for one look 
at the face they had gazed upon in^such passionate 
farewell so many months before. The strains of the 
“ Traeumerei” were still thrilling softly through the 
open casements, and, overcome.with emotion, tender- 
ness, and passion, Helen bent and laid her soft lips 
in fervent pressure on the senseless glove. 

Then the room rang with a sudden, startling joy- 
ous cry. The shade went whizzing into space, and 
the next instant Leale had sprung to and seized her 
in his arms. 

“Helen, darling — not that! Don’t waste those 
kisses,” and she sank sobbing in his arms just as, 
grand, joyous, triumphant, the strains of the wed- 
ding march burst forth, re-echoing among the walls 
of Fort Frayne. 


FORT^ FRAY^STE. 


305 


Rorke was the first man to come tearing in to 
announce the return of the wedding party and the 
guests, but Fenton was close on his heels on hos- 
pitable cares intent,” and exploding over Wayne’s 
performances. There was no time for a formal 
reception. ‘ ‘ Proceedings ” had been delayed well- 
nigh an hour as it was, and the east-bound train was 
reported unaccountably on time. Bride and bride- 
groom, bridesmaids, ushers, bachelors and bene- 
dicks, maids and matrons, Fort Frayne seemed surg- 
ing tumultuously up the Colonel’s step, surrounding 
and bedeviling poor Wayne to the verge of distrac- 
tion. ■ He laid the blame on his spring overcoat, a 
venerable garment of the fashion of twenty years 
agone, but that he had so seldom worn as to cause 
it to seem to him ever new and available, and for 
this garment he darted into the adjoining quarters 
while the laughing guests came tripping up the steps 
in the wake of the bride, who, totally ignoring Helen 
and Leale now, who were gazing into each other’s 
eyes in the deep bow window, rushed at her uncle 
with characteristic and explosive abuse. 

ril never be married at Fort Frayne again as long 
as I live! What on earth did Major — ’’but she 
could go no further, for the shout of laughter that 
greeted her sally, and the exclamations which resulted 
from the discovery of Leale and Helen, silenced her 
completely. And then the bride was rushed away to 
doff her finery and reappear in traveling garb, and 
then Will was hustled to his quarters to change his 
full-dress uniform for the conventional garb of civil 


306 


FORT FRAYNE. 


life, just as Wayne came in, dazed, half-demented, 
overcoat in one hand and a package in the other, that 
he now half-dreamily held forth to Ormsby, who 
took it, as wonderingly opened, and began slowly 
counting over a number of ‘ ‘ greenbacks, ’ ’ sole con- 
tents of the wrapper, but he dropped them as of lit- 
tle consequence, when the bewildered major pro- 
duced a moment later another — a little note from 
the depths of an inner pocket. They were all 
crowding around him now, but at sight of this mis- 
sive Ellis made a spring and captured it, only just in 
time, and was seized in turn by Ormsby, who pleaded 
for possession of what was plainly addressed to him, 
and then came renewed uproar, for Will reappeared 
in uniform trousers and unfastened blouse, and a 
towering rage. 

‘ ‘ Of all things that could have happened ito a man, 
think of this,’’ he cried. “Major Wayne, didn’t 
you promise me from the field to send that dispatch 
to Hatfield the moment you got to the post? ” 

“I did, and I pledge my solemn word that I kept 
it. I sent it the very first post I struck.” 

“You did, for a fact, you moonstruck — Oh, but 
just listen, all of you! Instead of my traveling 
suit here’s what I find — a letter from Hatfield, for- 
warded from Fort Washakie. ‘ Dear Sir: In accord- 
ance with your telegraphic instructions, we have this 
day forwarded to you a cutaway tweed traveling suit 
by American Express, and trust the same is,’ etc., 
‘also statement of’ — um, never mind that — ‘We 
are’ — now, mark this, all of you, good people — ‘we 


FOET FEAYNE 


307 


are somewhat at a loss to understand your sudden 
change of address, hut are compelled to act on your 
telegram, a copy of which is inclosed. ‘‘Fort 
Washakie, May 25. Have tweed cutaway traveling 
suit here by 13th prox. without fail. W. Farrar.” ’ 
Fort Washakie! Gracious powers! Think of my 
traveling suit at Washakie and I here and the train 
coming! ” 

“But Willy, dear,” said his mother, soothingly, 
“ surely you can wear for just a day or two last year’s* 
suit.” 

“That? Now? Why, heavens ablaze! Rorke 
couldn’t squeeze me into it with a shoehorn. I’ll 
have to travel in my jDajamas. Oh, couldn’t I murder 
you. Major Percival Wayne!” 

Poor Wayne’s cup was indeed full to overflowing. 
Martin and some of the youngsters lugged Will off 
to squeeze him into his last year’s garments, made 
on cadet measure, and then down came Kitty, the 
bonniest of brides, in the daintiest and most coquet- 
tish of costumes, and while Rorke and his satellites 
were passing the champagne, and everybody — no, 
almost everybody — was crowding about the bride, 
there stood poor Wayne still diving into those long 
forgotten placer mines of his pockets and fetching 
up bills and billets and odds and ends, while Lucretia 
tremulously, and Fenton, Farwell and Amory de- 
lightedly, watched him, and then came a new excite- 
ment. Enter Will, squeezed at last into the light 
gray tweeds he had so complacently donned a year 
before, and that now fitted him like the skin of a 


308 


FORT FBAYNE. 


sausage. A sudden move of one arm carried away 
the breast button. 

“It’s no use! ” he cried, “ I’m worse off than Peg- 
goty. Every jumj)’s a button! ” and then Kitty 
caught sight of him, and then there came a scene. 

“ What’s that? ” she exclaimed. “ That isn’t the 
man I married! I won’t stir a step with him in those 
things. ” 

“But I haven’t any other,” pleaded Will, in de- 
spair. 

“Who wants you to wear such things?” she fairly 
screamed, in almost hysterical laughter. “I married 
a soldier. Your uniform, sir, your best blouse and 
trousers and forage cap, and don’t you dare wear 
cits till I tell you.” 

And, as it was manifest that he couldn’t wear those 
now encasing him, the groom a third time hastened 
away to the upper regions, and, while dozens clus- 
tered as before about Kittie, an absorbed group still 
hung upon the movements of the major. The light, 
as of other days, was dawning on his face. He was 
searching still, and at last he found and drew forth 
a tiny box, at sight of which Lucretia’s maiden heart 
fluttered almost out of her throat. 

“And now what have you unearthed, old Rip Van 
Winkle?” boomed Fenton. “A ring, by all that’s 
gorgeous — a ring, and a beauty, and an inscription 
on it. P. W. to L. F., 1874. Who’s P. W? Who’s 
— but a glance at his sister’s tiansfigured face as she 
tottered there at his side warned the old warrior to 
desist. 


FORT FRAYNE. 


309 


W me was panting with excitement. ‘‘I know,” 
he cri d. ‘‘Of course it wasn’t my class ring; it was 
this. ( got it for — ” and here he turned and drew her 
to his rm, and the others considerately moved away, 
as at last that ring was fitted to the finger that had 
been waiting for it twenty long years. 

Five minutes more, and with Rorke leading off in 
the cheers, with music and sunshine, mirth and glad- 
ness, smiles and tears, and prayers and blessings, 
the young couple were whirled away to the station, 
bound for the bliss of the honeymoon. 

But what made that wedding day so remarkable 
was that it seemed to lead to so many more. There 
came a letter from Martin to Jack Ormsby only the 
other day. The latter, being a New York guards- 
man, was sweltering in his tent at Peekskill, Avhile 
Mrs. Jack consoled herself by a brief visit to the 
Leales at West Point. The former, being a West 
Pointer, fell back naturally into . the vernacular of 
his cadet days and this was somewhat as he wrote: 
“ Your blessed brother-in-law continues to be the joy 
of the Twelfth, and the dovecote is every whit as 
hospitable as Amory’s. But of course Will and Mrs. 
Will haven’t outlived their salad days, and their tiffs 
and make-ups are too funny for anything. Will is 
just as true a soldier as ever, but we always know 
when the ‘ wind’s in the east’ at the cote by his be- 
coming even more aggressively, austerely, self-deny. 
ingly military. Just now all is bliss, for dear Lady 
Farrar, ‘ Queen Mother,’ as we learned to call her 
from your sweet wife — my salutations to her lady- 


3l0 


rOET FBAYNE. 


ship — is, as you know, in the third week of her first 
visit to ‘ the children,’ and this, Jack, old boy, 
brings me to a prediction. In our cadet days we 
used to say ‘extras breed extras,’ and I’m thinking 
what that wedding day of Will’s is responsible for. 
First there’s you and Miss Ellis — God bless ’em! — 
there’s Leale and Mrs. Royle Farrar — God reward 
’em ! There’s Old-Man-IIeap-Mashed-in-the-Moon and 
Miss Lucretia — God help ’em! But, do you know, we 
believe our bully old colonel has the promise now of 
being made at last just the happiest man in old Fort 
Frayne.” 


THE END. 


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WHEN A MAN’S SINGLE. J. M. Barrie. 288 pages. 
‘4.TALE OF TWO CITIES. Charles Dickens. 262 pages 
^^EYOND THE CITY. A. Conan Doyle. 

THE MAN IN BLACK. Stanley J. Weyman. 

THE MAHARAJAH’S GUEST. An Indian Exile. 
THE LAST OF THE VAN SLACKS. 

Edward S. Van-Zile. 
A LOVER’S FATE AND A FRIEND’S COUNSEL, 

Anthony Hope. 

WHAT PEOPLE SAID. An Idle Exile. 

MARK TWAIN— His Life and Work. Will M. Clemens. 
THE MAJOR. Major Randolph Gore Hampton. 

ROSE AND NINETTE. Alphonse Daudet. 

THE MINISTER’S WEAK POINT. David Macluw. 
AT LOVE’S EXTREMES. Maurice Thompson. 

BY RIGHT NOT LAW. R. H. Sherard. 

SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. 

Beatrice Harraden. 

DODO; A Detail of the Day. E. F. Benson. 

A HOLIDAY IN BED, and Other Sketches. 

J, M. Barrie. 

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS; HIS LIFE AND 
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m DARKEST ENGLAND AND THE WAY OUT. 

Gin. Booth. 

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
DREAM LIFE. Ik Marvel (Donald G. Mitchell). 
:OSMOPOLIS. Paul Bourget. 

REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 

Ik Marvel (Donald G. Mitchell 
WAS IT SUICIDE? Ella Wheeler WUcox, 

POEMS AND YARNS. 

James Whitcomb Riley and Bill Nye. 
AN ENGLISH GIRL IN AMERICA. 

Tallulah Matteson Powell. 
SPARKS FROM THE PEN OF BILL NYE. 
PEOPLE’S REEERENCE BOOK— 999,999 Fact*. 
MARTHA WASHINGTON COOK BOOK. 

WEALTH AND BEAUTY. Emily S. Bouton. 
SOCIAL ETIQUETTE. Emily S. Bouton. 

LOOKING FORWARD. lUttStrated Viste to m 

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THE GATES OF DAWN. Fergus Hume. 

THE ONE TOO MANY. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 

IN THE OLD CHATEAU. Richard Henry Savage 
RACHEL DENE, Robert Buchanan. 

AT MARKET VALUE. Grant Allen. 

LOURDES. Emile Zola. 

THE MINOR CHORD. A Story of a Prima Donna. 

J, Mitchell ChapplCf 

CAMPAIGNS OF CURIOSITY. Elizabeth L. Bank. 
LIFE AND SERMONS OF DAVID SWING 
A DAUGHTER OF JUDAS. Richard Henry Savage. 
THE FLYING HALCYON. Richard Henry Savage. 
THE NEW MAN AT ROSSMERE. 

Mrs. J. H. Walwortlu 

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR. DERWENT. 

Thos. Cobb, 

THE PRINCESS OP ALASKA. 

Richard Henry Savago, 

IN THE QUARTER. Robert W. Chambers. 

THr ANARCHIST. A Story of To-day. 

Richard Henry Savage. 
A RENTED HUSBAND. Voisin. 

HAWAIIAN LIFE; Or, Lazy Letters from LovT 
Latitudes. Charles Warren Stoddard. 

LOVE AFFAIRS OF A WORLDLY MAN. 

Maibelle Justices 

LOVE LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN. 

Mrs. W. K. CliffordL 

ON A MARGIN. Julius Chambers. 

yOR LIFE AND LOVE. Richard Henry Savage. 

THE PASSING SHOW. Richard Henry Savage. 
DELILAH OF HARLEM. Richard Henry Savage. 
THE MASKED VENUS. Richard Henry Savage. 
PRINCE SCHAMYL’S WOOING. 

Richard Henry Savage* 

THF LITTLE LADY OF LAGUNITAS. 

Richard Henry Savagew 
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MADAM SAPPHIRA. Edgar Saltus. 

ARE MEN GAY DECEIVERS ? Mrs. Frank Leslie. 
MISS MADAM. Opie Reed. 

THE FALLEN RACE. Austyn Granville. 

A YOUNG LADY TO MARRY, and Other French 
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Noir, and Grevillc. 

THE ADO TED DAUGHTER. Edgar Fawcett. 
SWEET DANGER. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

BITTER ERUiTS. Madam Caro. 

L’EVA.;GELISTE. Alphonse Daudet. 

REMARKS BY BILL NYE. Edgar Wilson Nye. 
HYPNOTISM. Jules Claretie. 

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